


Promises Paid in Blood

by MizDirected



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Soulmates, Star-crossed, True D/s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 65,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizDirected/pseuds/MizDirected
Summary: Varric tells Hawke's story from just after the Deep Roads to Inquisition and a little beyond. After Fenris walks out on her and her mother dies, Miriam Hawke searches for meaning and faith, finding it in a most unexpected place. Queen Cousland-Theirin and the Inquisitor will also make appearances as things progress.





	1. The Seeker

**Chapter One – Encounter Two**

_Varric shifted in the chair, running his hands over the leather binding of the book in his lap. How many days had the guards dragged him back to that same room to sit amidst the deserted ruins of his dearest friend's old life? The days all bled into each other so completely, and the Seeker kept her schedule so erratic that he doubted he could even count them._

_The Seeker: Cassandra Pentaghast._

_Maker, how he wished he'd never heard that name. If all Seekers possessed natures so fundamentally relentless, he couldn't blame the Templars for telling them where to stick their orders._

_He chuckled at that … stick their orders … he'd have to remember to write that one down if he survived. His laugh drew glares from the guards, but he paid them no more attention than it took to make sure they didn't reach for their swords. Then the door opened, and she stormed through. Bowed legs turned her swinging, controlled gait into a duck walk―something she probably would have skewered him for saying―and the hairy eyeball on her chest glared at him, rife with judgment. He shuddered; it practically screamed, 'Andraste died for your worthless backside, so shape up.' Unlike the guards, the Seeker's hand never left her sword._

" _So where were we?" she asked. A purely rhetorical question._

_Varric made a show of thinking about the answer. "You were looming over me menacingly while I assured you that even if I knew where Hawke was, the Golden City will be restored and the Maker returned before I told you." He sighed when she merely glared at him. Apparently Seekers had their sense of humour removed during their training. "Fine. We'd finally made it back from the deep roads, and Cullen had just taken Bethany away to the Gallows."_

_Varric closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the story to form inside his mind. The truth had never been his strong suit―well, the entire, unfettered truth, anyway. Exaggeration was good for the soul … present circumstances excepted. Seeker Pentaghast's tolerance for exaggeration ranked just south of her sense of humour._

" _Yes, the Champion's sister … a lifelong apostate, taken away against her will to live in the Circle." The Seeker strode over to glare down at him._

_Varric settled into the chair and looked up. "Yes, but if you think you can blame all the insanity of the world on Hawke losing Bethany, you're howling at the new moon, Seeker."_

" _Am I?" She sliced the air with one hand and shook her head. "Everything makes perfect sense with that piece in place. Especially considering the fact that two of her other companions … the Dalish elf, Merrill, and that warden, Anders, were apostates as well."_

_Varric growled softly low in his throat, the last name setting fire to his guts like tinder. "Don't talk to me about Anders. Damn maps." He shook his head as the puzzle pieces aligned in his mind's eye. Everything built step by step upon that moment where he'd recovered Hawke's stolen purse and suggested a partnership. No maps, no Anders._

' _Everything happens for a reason, Varric,' Hawke had told him the last night they'd sat in those very chairs warming themselves by a very similar fire. 'I like to think we've mitigated at least some of the destruction and death over the years.'_

" _We thought they all came from Ferelden together, but this … " The Seeker's voice rose, excitement colouring the words a bright shade of maniacal. "... this makes much more sense. Her father hunted, trying to protect her sister … . What stronger motive can someone possess than protecting their family?" She paced to the table and back, her steps hurried, her entire body inclined forward._

_Varric forced his body to stay loose as he lifted a hand to cut her off. He couldn't let her bolt straight through to the part where his head ended up separated from his neck. "You're building your bridge out of all the wrong stones. So much happened in those years … so many people and factions all losing their minds around us," he said. Some days it felt like they couldn't run fast enough … a new crisis rearing its head before they managed to beat the last one to death._

" _Then what are you leaving out?" One eyebrow arched, daring him to lie to her._

_For a moment, he considered taking her up on it, but then he shrugged. The truth came with its own matched set of insane, unbelievable, and heartbroken. Lies might be easier for her to swallow. The truth. Hmmm … it was a novel idea. Well, he supposed the day had to come._

" _What have I left out?" He looked down, running his hands over the binding once more. "Everything from the moment Knight Captain Cullen took Bethany away to when the entire city lost its mind."_

_The Seeker leaned a hip against the table. "Then start filling in that blank."_

_Varric let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. "The Deep Roads made us all a great deal of money. Hawke bought the Amell estate and moved her mother out of Lowtown. She took care of Bethany the best she could, considering that as someone with significant skill at causing chaos and death, Knight Commander Meredith wouldn't let her through the Gallows' inner gate. However, thanks to the assistance Hawke provided in hunting down the missing Templar recruits, Cullen could be persuaded to take notes and small packages back and forth … as long as he was able to inspect them."_

_Varric shrugged. "Life settled down into a new sort of desperate normal. With the Deep Roads expedition going the way it did, Bethany ending up in the circle, and the general state of unrest in the city, none of us gave Javaris Tintop a second thought. The qunari, well everyone in the city was worried enough about the qunari to give them second, third, and fourth thoughts. As far as any of us knew, they just sat there in their compound. Food went in, nothing came out. The city avoided the place, practically wearing a path in the street from coming down the stairs from Lowtown and edging around the right hand wall."_

" _And Hawke? She sympathized with that qunari mage, helped him escape the city. What did she think of the qunari remaining after so long?" The Seeker pulled out a chair, swinging it around to straddle it._

_Varric frowned and closed his eyes, one hand lifting to rub his brow, his thoughts directed to Hawke. 'This is where things get sticky, old friend. I hope you'll forgive me … or at least not smack me around too hard when I get home.' Dropping the hand, he opened the book. "The qunari fascinated Hawke. She admired their discipline and their sense of order, but most of all, I think they posed a mystery." He let out a dry chuckle. "Hawke never could resist a mystery."_

A vague whisper of unease traced cold fingers down Hawke's spine. She hesitated at the base of the staircase from Lowtown, a gaze long used to suspicion brushing over the dock's scattered denizens. Nothing amidst the rusted iron, dirty stone, and downtrodden faces stood out to account for her twitchiness. She chalked it up to the dread provoked by her destination.

She glanced toward the qunari compound, but then a sylph laden with spices and heady florals slipped past, riding the salt breeze out of the wharf master's courtyard. Her eyes drifted partway closed as the scent curled under her nose, caressing her like an affectionate cat. Well, that confirmed the rumours of an argosy newly arrived from Antiva.

Hawke's mother and their servant, Orana, would dress for the markets and race from the house the moment she arrived home with word … providing Bodahn or Varric didn't tell them first, of course. In that case, she'd arrive home to a lot of empty, echoing rooms. She let out a long sigh. She missed the strains of melody following her little songbird through the house. Gamlen's hovel hadn't seemed nearly so dreary when the sun rose to the sound of Bethany singing as she prepared for the day. Despite the new, soft bed and luxurious sheets, the mansion felt cold and empty without that sweet music.

In that face of that hollowness, and how much worse it must be for Leandra, what were a few coins sacrificed to see her mother busy and content? If they have ginger and cloves, Leandra may even bake Bethany's favourite cookies.

Hawke swallowed the sour lump of regret and guilt that grabbed hold of the back of her throat and shook her head. No. The Maker Himself would stand in her kitchen baking Bethany's spice cookies, the Void spilling into the streets of Kirkwall, before Hawke spoke to the Arishok with her eyes raining tears, voice cracking.

Another waft of spice and perfume pulled her back, allowing her to shove those thoughts from her mind. Leandra and Orana needed more than spices and herbs for their experiments. Perhaps she'd grab Varric and head up the Sundermount. A day's hunting and gathering would give her avid cooks a broader palette with which to paint.

She took a deep breath. All that food … she'd need help eating it. The perfect excuse to invite Fenris over. She packed down the fluttering in her belly thinking about Fenris provoked, also not wanting to stand before the Arishok giggling like a love-addled teenager.

A harsh cough from off to her left drew her attention back to her purpose. She met the qunari guard's eyes and squared her shoulders, lifting her chin a little. The qunari respected silent, modest strength. She took a deep, steadying breath, flashing back to her father's voice telling her that true strength didn't need to boast or prove itself. The scars across the back of her neck twinged, pulling her hand up to rub them. Of course, under the Qun, her independent, brilliant father would have suffered beneath shackle and collar. Qunari mages did not live well.

She shoved her shoulders back and lengthened her stride. Despite her burning curiosity about the city's guests from the north, she hadn't set foot inside the compound since Javaris Tintop and his parade of black-powder delusions. Sometimes she slowed as she passed on her night patrols and listened as the men sat around fires, talking and laughing, secure in their fellowship behind the locked gates. She listened and wondered what they spoke of, the great mystery of the Qun prickling at her like nettles.

Mysteries never sat well with her. Normally, she attacked those she found, poking and tugging at them until they gave up their secrets. The Arishok … well, she figured that poking and tugging at the Arishok wouldn't end well. And so, unable to bring herself to invade the his space, Hawke spent the years reading whatever she could find about qunari, even sending messages back and forth with several scholars, all of whom agreed the only true way to know the Qun was immersion.

She stopped in front of the guard and looked up, meeting his disinterested gaze. "I believe the Arishok is expecting me?"

He nodded and gave the gate a shove, swinging it just wide enough for her to pass through. Vague warnings that bordered on threats had greeted her previous visits, but apparently being invited brought those to a halt. He remained silent as she brushed by.

Hawke jogged up the stairs past scattered qunari warriors. Some gathered in small groups, talking in voices too low for her to make out; others stood alone, silent sentinels as chiseled and solid as statues. As her eyes travelled over the well defined torso of an Ashaad, she felt her cheeks heat. How many times before the deep roads had she and Isabela embarrassed Bethany and Merrill by joking about suddenly developing convenient clumsiness around Tal Vashoth?

'Ooops, sorry about that. Didn't mean to grope your chest, completely, absolutely by accident. Oops, oh goodness, was that your backside? My apologies. That was very― Oh no! Clumsy me.'

She smiled at the memory of the two young women burning bright red, Merrill taking them far too seriously while Songbird thumped Hawke with an elbow, her eyes sparkling even as she pretended to glower.

Biting her lip to stifle that memory as well, Hawke hurried up the stairs toward the large bench and the even larger man seated on it. Hawke couldn't be considered tiny or delicate by any stretch of the imagination, but the Arishok made her feel like a weak-kneed fawn standing next to a bear. She stopped at the bottom stair, bowed her head in a sharp but respectful nod, and waited for him to speak.

"Serah Hawke." The Arishok leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. "The last time you stood there, you responded to the dwarf's manipulations with a small amount of honour." He straightened, the thunderstorm moving over his broad features and the tone of his voice making his words sound like a veiled insult or challenge. He lifted his head, pulling it back on his neck. "Since, you have risen in station and influence." Again, his tone seemed to challenge her, but to what? To prove that she owed her change in circumstance to worthiness rather than bas vices? She doubted that he considered raiding the treasures of the deep roads a worthy endeavour.

Looking around her, she took in the austere and primitive, but well-ordered conditions inside the walls. For the qunari, nothing had changed since her last visit. Most of the men lived in makeshift tents, the viddathari in the innermost ones. About the only thing that had changed was the number of converts, particularly elves. She frowned. Years seemed a very long time for ships to arrive. How did they feed themselves? How had they survived for so long in that square of stone and mortar? Did most of them even leave the compound? How were they all not losing their minds?

She cracked her neck, pushing away the questions and turned back to meet his dark, eerie stare. Why had he called her there? Surely it hadn't been to catch up on years of conversation. "Arishok. Viscount Dumar said that you requested my presence."

He pushed off his knees and stood, descending the stairs to stand within arm's reach, forcing her to crane her head back to meet the open assessment in his stare. Even without standing three steps higher than she, he towered over her―the great bear poised to crush her into the stone. Despite the nervous energy fluttering in her stomach, nothing in his expression provoked real fear. She knew his rigid sense of honour prevented him from harming her without cause, and as far as she knew, she'd done nothing to give him cause.

He met her thoughtful scrutiny for a couple of seconds before asking, "You do not fear coming here alone?"

An interesting question. She frowned and looked around, a shrug denying her nerves. "Respectfully, Arishok, if being in the company of men with large swords increases my safety ... I'm now in the safest part of town."

He stared at her for a few more heartbeats then returned to his seat. For a moment, she thought she had seen a little softening of the usual disdain that creased the flesh around his eyes. But when he sat, facing her once more, the inscrutable mask of disapproval and distaste remained firmly fixed in place.

"I offer a courtesy, Hawke. Someone has stolen what he believes is the formula for gaatlok." The Arishok's voice rumbled deep in his throat, adding an extra layer of gravity to his words. "You will want to hunt him."

Hawke let out a long, resigned breath. "Javaris." Her stare narrowed as she registered the conditional words in the middle sentence. She tilted her head as if to hear him more clearly. "What he believes is gaatlok? What did he actually steal?"

"Saar-gamek, a poison gas." His words dropped like boulders into deep water, taking her gut with them.

"Poison gas," she repeated, the words bitter and leaden on her tongue. Of all the people in the Maker's wide creation who shouldn't be allowed in the same province as poison gas, Javaris Tintop stood at the head of the line. Twenty questions wrestled for position in her head, tangling with nightmarish visions of the death and destruction the dwarf could bring down on the city. After beating her way through the mess, she cleared a wide enough path to find the most important.

"How did he manage to steal something so deadly from you?" she asked, the question as much wonder as actually asking for an explanation. Something was missing from the equation. "He's not a criminal mastermind by any measure."

"We allowed it." The Arishok leaned forward, wrists on his knees. His head and one hand tilted in tandem. That simple gesture of explanation set fire to the last of Hawke's nerves, anger flaring up from their ashes. He just allowed someone to steal poison gas? His voice broke through her ire. "Would a simple 'no' dissuade someone determined to possess the gaatlok? Or would he seek to obtain it by other means?" he continued.

An annoyed hiss escaped between Hawke's teeth before she could clamp her lips shut on it. "One of the least mentally gifted life forms in Thedas has the formula for poison gas, and thinks it's something he wants to manufacture in huge quantities?" She let her exasperation bleed into her gaze, reining it in when the Arishok stiffened in response.

He sat back, huge and menacing. For a moment, his expression seemed pleased, almost gloating, as if glad to be able to throw another example of the depravity of her world in her face. "A courtesy, Hawke. You will want to hunt him."

His apparent pleasure in having successfully put hundreds of lives at risk, broke down the last of her restraint. Enough people tugged and clawed at the frayed edges of the damned city already without the qunari adding their talons into the mix.

"So, you just left it lying around? Stupidity doesn't need an invitation." She planted her hands on her hips and let her head drop between raised shoulders. Tremulous fingers clung to her temper, wrestling its slippery, ever-changing form.

"We did not make it easy." His voice tumbled down on her like boulders. She looked up without lifting her head. "Three qunari died defending it. Enough to impart a sense of worth." Again with the head tilt, but that time she only saw arrogance and disdain.

That admission sent her reeling. She'd been called there to deal with a nightmare that just kept escalating. The formula had been guarded, and yet they allowed Javaris to get away with it? "You sent three of your people to their deaths just to ensure that he believed it was real enough to manufacture?" What in the name of the Maker? That made no sense.

Perhaps they felt their sacrifice important. Why would qunari lay down their lives? Why would the Arishok ask it of them? Were their lives so cheap to him?

Hawke pressed the heel of her hand against the pulse throbbing at her temples as she tried to bring all the shards of information swirling around her head into a cohesive whole. No, the Arishok did not spend his people's lives recklessly. Why would qunari lay down their lives? Because the Qun demanded it or for the good of their people. She nodded and let her hand fall back to her side. There had to be something larger going on. She just needed to stay cool and figure it out.

More easily thought than executed. Her heart raced and her brain imagined every horrible possible outcome of the gas. Was the entire world just determined to tear itself apart?

The Arishok's expression never changed, but she swore that amusement continued to simmer beneath that dark, steady stare when she finally got herself under control and looked up. He tilted his head a little. Challenging her? "Does it not make more sense to bait the thief into a trap than to allow him to take you by surprise?"

Part of her screaming at her for her stupidity, Hawke climbed a stair closer. "I'm fighting to keep this city from ripping itself to pieces. I don't need another set of hands throwing bait to the wolves." She leaned toward him, her entire body sharp and jagged. Despite taking note of the way his men shifted forward, their hands moving toward their weapons, she remained focused on their leader. "I'm trying to prevent a war, Arishok, as much for your people as mine, and this … this isn't even negligence … it's criminal."

She felt, rather than saw two qunari close in on her from behind. She raised her hand toward the hilt of Jarvia's Shank. "I won't start anything," she said, keeping her voice low, "but I'll respond to being attacked. You asked me to come here and deal with this mess … a mess you allowed … ." Keeping her stare firmly locked on the Arishok's, she waited, pulling in long, calming breaths as her anger rattled the bars that kept it caged, bars that began to loosen.

The Arishok tilted his chin, backing his men off. If anything, his manner relaxed rather than building toward anger. "No matter how many stones you throw in its path, Serah Hawke, the tide will come in."

Hawke pulled back, startled enough by his tone that she let her arm drop. Holding that icy stare, she thought she saw something … just a flicker, but related to the slight softening from earlier. Philosophy? He wanted to follow those revelations with philosophical discussion of the inevitability of war?

"Then I'll build a dam." She straightened and clenched her teeth. Damn his stubbornness and his pride. Letting out a harsh blast of air, she cracked her neck, trying to shed her anger and return to the problem at hand. She and the Arishok could debate the inevitability of war until the Maker returned once Javaris wasn't poisoning the city.

"I'll track Javaris down. I'll stop him." She descended one stair and started to turn, but then stopped and glanced back. "If the tide is going to drown us all eventually, why am I here? Why warn us at all?"

The Arishok sat up, the heels of his hands braced against his thighs. "Sometimes one must pry apart a wall to find the adders within." Again, that slight softening of the lines around his eyes, almost like he was trying to tell her something. "Until the moon turns and the tide comes in, I will show respect to the most promising among you."

Respect? Was that what she'd seen? A piece fell into place in her head. Adders in the walls? Wait … had the stolen formula been a trap set for Javaris at all? Why else would the Arishok let the dwarf take it and then send for her? If he wanted to stop the dwarf, his own men could have done so at the time. If he wanted to sew chaos, he could have told the guards. Instead, he'd sent for her. A wide variety of Andrastian body parts and underclothing rumbled through her mind riding a string of curses that would have impressed even Varric.

"How dangerous is this gas?" she asked, refusing to turn back. She couldn't refuse to play his game, but she could take part reluctantly. However, the seething of the men around her ... their resentment at her attitude eased her anger a little. It told her a great deal about the situation and the Arishok. Still, she shrugged off their anger. Let them seethe. She didn't bow or bend because the wind howled.

"It is madness and then death. It drives those who breathe it into a rage that does not distinguish ally from enemy. The more deadly their skill, the more they kill before succumbing," he replied. A steady, calculating stare followed that admission, as if he was curious as to how she'd react.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she muttered, "So, crazed grandmothers take out babies with a butcher knife before they die in agony?" She met his stare over her shoulder, not bothering to hide her disgust. Let him see. "I'm not sure I've ever heard anything more diabolical."

Would she sacrifice her city for the folly of a few? That had never been her way. She drew the lightning to spare others its wrath. Perhaps there was a greater plan.

Hawke muttered a curse and turned away, thumping down the last stair, her entire body suddenly exhausted. "I'll stop the idiot from killing us all. I hope you have a wonderful day." She'd dance to his tune because the voice in her mind, that steady guide that counted all of their lives more valuable than her own, would settle for nothing less.

She made two strides toward the gate, before that deep, gruff voice called after her, "Panahedan, Hawke. I do not hope that you die."

Hawke glanced back, startled out of her anger. "Be still my heart," she muttered under her breath. After a wry shake of her head and another pointed glare, she trotted across the compound and out the gate.

A-N: So, I've pulled this baby out of mothballs and am working on it. Would love to get the entire three game story told one of these days.


	2. The Poisoned Elf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "On the eve of reclaiming that which is most sacred to qunari, filth stole the pillar of our beliefs from my grasp." [The Arishok] stood, the movement backing Hawke down a step. He felt like an avalanche poised to crash down on the city, smashing the entire place into the sea.

_Varric stared into the fire, watching the flames dance. Literal years had passed since he last thought about the crazy elf and her barrels of poison. It said a great deal about the madness of the time that what came after overshadowed losing an portion of the city to poison gas. It said a great deal about the horror of the time that having to cut down innocent civilians disappeared into the haze of violence. Sometimes looking back on those years, he found it difficult to remember that they probably saved more lives than they took. Probably._

_The Seeker pulled him out of his thoughts as she thumped an ewer down on the table between their chairs. A sharp nod indicated that it was for him. He glanced into the vessel and sighed._

" _If you're going to force a dwarf to relive some of the worst moments of his life, you could at least provide ale." Still, he took a long drink of the water, finding it cold enough to make his head ache. It slaked his thirst well enough, it just left his mind altogether too clear._

_The Seeker sat and drank from her own tankard. "So Hawke and the Arishok's men nearly came to blows." A frown puckered her brow, deepening the shadows around her eyes and mouth. "The rumours claim she had a reputation for being a qunari sympathizer. That doesn't add up."_

_Varric let out a long-suffering sigh. "Don't jump ahead, Seeker. There's a lot more to tell."_

_She let out a soft grunt that almost sounded amused, and stretched out, her heels on the hearth. "Then, by all means, enlighten me."_

" _Enlighten … yeah, that about says it." He took another drink, then shifted, leaning forward with his elbows braced against the arms of his chair. The book … the sanitized version of events he'd written for the public … sat open, but unneeded in his lap. None of them wanted to remember those parts of the story, let alone get slapped with them by the curious public everytime they went to the market._

" _We tracked down Javaris just to discover the whole thing had been a set up." Varric shrugged. "The dwarf was running for his life from a really insane elf―the actual thief. Hawke let him go with the threat to end him violently and slowly if he returned to Kirkwall." He paused, remembering Hawke's fury at the dwarf's attitude. "I wonder if he ever got that used boot business off the ground?"_

_The Seeker just scowled._

" _Right." He sighed. "Forgot about the mandatory vow of no-discernible-sense-of-humour." He shook his head, wishing his words could actually strike home. "Anyway, we raced back to the city, all of us barely able to drag our boots over the stone by the time we found the elf. She'd released the gas and the city guard had the area gated off. In usual Hawke fashion, she brushed the guard aside, telling them she'd take care of it."_

_A long, slow shudder greeted the memory of what they found behind the gate that day. "The elf and her mercenaries had succumbed to the effects of the gas and gave us one hell of a fight."_

_The Seeker pulled her feet back and leaned forward, her entire body rigid, but he suspected that it stemmed from interest rather than aggression. "How did you avoid being overcome by the poison gas?"_

" _Hawke had us all soak handkerchiefs and tie them over our nose and mouth. When we arrived in the district, she sent Anders to barricade all the doors to keep the civilians in their homes. Still, by the time we got all those barrels sealed, we'd all killed far too many innocents and retreated to separate corners, worried about turning on each other." He shuddered, remembering the madness that had crept under his skin like beetles, biting and gnawing at him until he thought he'd lose his mind._

" _We brought down the elf, and Aveline made arrangements with the city guard to dispose of the barrels. Anders hit us all with healing and cleansing spells that helped a little, and then Hawke sent us home." He looked down at the book, his fingers tracing the stylized version of Hawke standing, cleavers crossed over her chest, looking victorious. "I knew she'd see the Arishok before she went home, so I followed her."_

Heavy hands of exhaustion and sorrow pressed down on Hawke's shoulders, ogre fists doing their best to crush her into the ground. Her knees trembled a little more as she thumped down every stair, struggling to hold the extra weight of the day's insanity. She wobbled to a stop at the base of the passage from Lowtown, her weary gaze brushing over the dock's scattered denizens. Other than the low, deep-blue light of post-twilight, nothing amidst the rusted iron, dirty stone, and downtrodden faces looked any different than it had that morning. She took a step, then stumbled backwards, sitting down hard when her heel caught the stair.

Chasing Javaris Tintop out of the city through the sewers then racing back to the city to fight every mercenary in the Free Marches had stripped the fire from her limbs, leaving them cold and leaden. The lead in her heart, well … she'd cut down a lot of enraged housewives and old men, lives wasted by the elven mercenary's madness. Hawke pressed her eyes shut, her chin dropping to her chest.

The gas plagued her, despite Anders's efforts. Her head ached, and her pulse still throbbed at the base of her throat. The rage brought on by the  _saar-qamek_  had worked to her advantage during the fight―her small group of friends decided before they even entered the district to give each other a wide berth―but damn if it didn't leave behind ten thousand daggers trying to cut her out of her skin.

And shred her heart.

She suspected all her companions felt the same. Even killing raiders and mercenaries wore on the spirit after a while, but killing ordinary folk destroyed souls. She'd need to check on them all, especially Fenris. He showed a tough, angry face, but she saw through the mask. She hated to see more pain heaped on his already weighed down shoulders.

She ran her fingers through her hair again, coming away with something she didn't want to identify wrapped around her little finger.

"Maker, I need a bath." She slumped, a soft sigh drifting from her lips as she daydreamed about sinking into a tub of steaming hot water. "Then food." Her growing stomach and her brain joined forces to interrupt her bath fantasy with lustful thoughts of eggs, cheese, and fresh bread smothered in butter. There might even be side pork.

"Come, get up, take a deep breath and forge ahead. The city needs you to remain strong."

"Shut up, Raggs." She scowled at the nagging voice inside her skull, then laughed, weary helpless chuckles. Talking out loud to one's childhood imaginary friend … residual madness offered the best possible explanation. Hawke ran her fingers through her short, unruly black hair, wincing as they caught in dried blood and gore. Disgusting.

"You okay there, Hawke?" her best friend called. "Making strange faces and talking to yourself aren't usually considered signs of a healthy mind."

She looked up, watching Varric close the last couple of yards. The dwarf stumbled along, looking every bit as beaten up and weighed down as she felt. "Has there ever been any indication of my possessing a healthy mind?" Her hands lifted in entreaty. "I went into the deep roads with you. Come on, Varric. I've never been in any danger of being called sane." She glanced over her shoulder toward Lowtown. "I thought I sent you home?"

The dwarf ignored her question, replying instead to her claim of dubious sanity. "When you're right … you're right." Toppling against the wall, he let out a sigh that sounded as though it crawled out of his boots. "I need a drink. Maybe five." Nodding toward the gate and its ever-present guard, he asked, "Want me to come with you? Can't hurt to have someone at your back when you break the news to the Arishok."

A bitter sound, could have been a curse or a laugh, tried to cut its way out of her throat, but caught on the back of her tongue. "Thanks, Varric, but I've got this. My earlier discussion with the Arishok bordered on transitioning to large pointy objects doing the talking for us. I'll spare you that. Although, I'm far too tired to yell at him."

A slow flip of her hand commanded him to go. "Get out of here, eat, drink, and for Andraste's sake … bathe." She gave him a weary smile and shoved herself up off the stairs. "I'll wander down to the Hanged Man when I'm done here." She took a step, then glanced back. "Have an ale or five waiting for me when I get there."

A slow, easy grin brightened the wide, heavy planes of his face. "Going to try to top your record?"

"It's a goal that will never be achieved, my friend." She forced a chuckle and hefted her armour higher up her shoulders, trying to settle it a little more comfortably. "If today I drink six flagons, it only means that tomorrow I'll have to try for seven." The sound of his laughter warmed her as she approached the gate. She turned back after a couple of strides. "If you run across Fenris, keep him close. Watch him. He didn't look well."

Varric nodded. "Will do."

"All are forbidden," the guard said as though he could somehow make her task even more ominous, "except you. For now."

A slight nod greeted the addendum. "Thanks, I'll try to remember that." She lifted into a weary jog, her steps uneven and heavy as she crossed the yard to stand before the Arishok. At some point that day, someone poured ten pounds of lead into each of her boots.

"Serah Hawke," the qunari leader called before she stopped at the bottom of the stairs, "your viscount has already sent a message to chastise me for the carelessness of my trap. He blames me for the deaths that resulted." He stood and walked down the stairs to stand just above her. "You shared his belief before you left these walls this morning." His stare pierced straight through her as if he could see everything she wished to hide, to ferret out the truth of her with his eyes alone. She took a deep breath, drawing confidence from his gaze rather than withering beneath it. Maybe he could read her soul, but she harboured nothing he couldn't view freely.

"Do you still share it? Do I deserve what passes for his wrath?" he asked, going as still as death, his hands clenched at his sides. The viscount on his worse day certainly couldn't scrape together the wrath the Arishok showed on his best.

Hawke held his eye contact, getting no sense of danger despite the waves of frustration rolling off of him like heat from stone. Letting it wash over her, she shook her head. "I believe a less virulent bait … " She straightened a little, taking a deep breath to help hold her upright and strong. "... a less brutal lesson in the degenerate nature of our society might have prevented the lifelong stain I now carry for murdering a dozen civilians." She blinked back the sudden burn in her eyes, doing her best to ignore the single tear that escaped. Swallowing hard, she took another deep breath. "But no. I don't share his beliefs."

The Arishok let out a breath abruptly enough that she thought he might have been holding it, and a subtle, but telling relaxation settled through his shoulders. He remained locked onto her for another couple of seconds before pivoting on his heel and returning to his bench.

Hawke blinked a few times, her eyelids gritty and dry. "The elf was insane, bent on vengeance, and driven to murder by whispers from fanatical shadows." She paused as he sat. "When lightning strikes the house, do we blame the weathercock or the storm? She would have found another way to kill and lay the blame on you." Crossing her arms, she shrugged. "And Maker knows, if it had taken us unaware … the death toll could have been much higher. As it was, I managed to lock all but a few people in their homes. They're sick, but my healer says they will recover."

Suddenly, the picture formed—why had it taken her all day to figure it out?—and she realized that he'd known all along Javaris wasn't the thief. Maker's breath, sometimes her skull proved so incredibly thick it amazed her anything got through. Of course he didn't just sit there on his bench and watch the days go by. Her mind's eye saw his agents, and she doubted he possessed just a few, flowing through the city, veins of information carried by qunari no one ever suspected.

Her anger faded, along with some of her exhaustion. How had people as intelligent as her parents created such a fool? So then the question came back to … why her? Why did he call her to deal with it? She felt as if the answer should fill her with dread, but it didn't. In fact, quite the opposite.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders back, his neck arching a little as a depth settled into his stare. It almost looked like … a connection … or could it be a confidence? Damn his inscrutability. It couldn't be trust? Surely not.

The Arishok sucked in a deep breath, his massive chest expanding as he drew himself tall. "The snakes in the walls of this city are determined to paint the qunari as monsters." He paused, then folded down, forearms on his knees once more. "Should I ignore the hissing and slithering of scale on stone? Is your Maker so weak, your fear so great, that you would attack those who make no threat, offer no offense?" He glanced around the compound, pausing on a group of soldiers and  _viddathari_  working to prepare the evening meal. "I will protect those under my command."

Hawke stared at him for a few seconds before she realized her mouth hung open. He'd set the trap to protect his people. The three soldiers who died to 'impart worth' did so to protect the rest. She didn't know whether to be horrified or pleased to end the day having seen just how stupid she could be. Experiencing the following enlightenment helped dull the sting.

Pushing that aside, she answered him, "Some of us are very frightened, and some of us seek to blame scapegoats for our problems. Not all, but unfortunately the decent, tolerant people are very rarely the ones out making noise." Folding her arms, she leaned most of her weight into one hip, too tired to stand rigid and respectful. If he didn't like it, he could boot her ass out, but she didn't think he cared. As odd as it was, she felt like they'd reached some sort of understanding.

"The elf was angry," she said, "at humans for marginalizing her people and the qunari because her people turn to the Qun in order to find belonging and purpose."

"Any who wish to submit and live by the Qun are welcomed. Should I turn the weak away, deny them protection, acceptance, and purpose merely because your Maker would have them live in misery and poverty?" He tilted his chin up a little. It didn't register as arrogance, but rather a challenge, daring her to speak honestly rather than falling back on Androstian rhetoric. She almost laughed. He really didn't know her.

Hawke shook her head. "No, if that's their choice, I wish them well." A short, sharp sigh chased after the words, her exhaustion turning feral. She still needed to climb the five hundred thousand stairs home.

"We did not intend to land on this shore," he continued, his voice rising a little with every word, "and we do not remain in this filthy prison of depravity and greed to slowly indoctrinate your unwanted. If I wished to enlighten this city, it would be done swiftly, and these shadows would prove no more hindrance than the rats scurrying under their feet " Finishing the declaration at a near shout, he drew back a little, his manner closing off as if he'd allowed his temper or something else to spill too much information.

Hawke's brow furrowed, the skin between her eyebrows pinching. How hard dare she push? "You've been here a long time," she said. "Far longer than I would have expected. Years ago, you told me that you were in Kirkwall to meet a demand of the Qun." She shifted hips.

"We will remain as long as we must," he replied, both arms lifting from his knees in an almost-shrug, the gesture lending gravity to his words rather than dispelling it. "Only once I have fulfilled my duty to the Qun will a ship come to take us from this festering pustule of want." He looked down, his brow hanging heavy over his eyes as his stare left her for the first time. "I am stuck here." Instead resignation, Hawke heard something far more dangerous.

Her belly pulled a barn swallow, and she stepped up another step, sparing only a fleeting glance for the warriors along the slope of the stairs as they bristled. "There's no ship?" Taking a deep breath, she stretched her shoulders back. Her armour hung so very heavy and chafed along the seams. One hand drifted up to scrub at the scars along the back of her head. "Did you tell the Viscount that a ship was coming, or did he come to that hopeful conclusion on his own?"

When he didn't reply or look up, she swallowed against the sick twist that buried its claws in her guts. "This city is on the verge of losing its collective mind, and this … ." The claws twisted harder. "News like this … . What can I do in the face of this? The Viscount, city leaders … the chantry … they're all going to panic if we take away the hope of your departure."

He lifted up, his spine stiffening into … she'd say steel, but it felt a lot more brittle than that. "On the eve of reclaiming that which is most sacred to qunari, filth stole the pillar of our beliefs from my grasp." He stood, the movement backing Hawke down a step. He felt like an avalanche poised to crash down on the city, smashing the entire place into the sea. "No ship will come until I recover what was stolen," he continued. Shoulders drawing up around his neck, he stepped forward, but this time she didn't back away. If he intended to coming crashing and roaring down upon anything, let it be her.

He is so very close to laying waste to Kirkwall, and if he does, then the chantry will march on the city and flatten what remains. Whatever the cost, that cannot happen.

So, no pressure trying to bring events to a peaceful end, then. Failure meant thousands of dead innocents, qunari, and eventually soldiers as well. The chantry wouldn't hesitate to declare an exalted march to remove the qunari from the Free Marches. If she didn't find a way to satisfy the Qun's demand and return to the Arishok whatever was stolen, there would be no Kirkwall in two year's time.

"You would have me walk from this mire and leave it to drown in its own disfunction," he said, "but the greed that bound me here is merely a symptom of the disease. That bas filth would endanger every life in this city … and for what? Gold? The arrogance that their miserable life is more valuable than yours, your family's, everyone in Kirkwall's?" His chin lifted, a gesture of defiance that untied the knot. As long as he held his pride, his honour remained intact. She didn't trust a lot, but she trusted that. If the adders in the shadows pushed things to where invading became a point of honour … . She shuddered and focused back on his face.

"None of it matters. The elf, your viscount, the adders … they can all rot." He strode to the edge of the stair and stepped down, his expression furious, but also … what was it she saw? Frustration certainly, but something searching dwelled beneath it. Those dark eyes stared down at her for long seconds, the massive chest heaving like a dragon about to spew flame. "What would you have me do, Serah Hawke?" He spun and stalked back to his bench, shoulders bristled, all jagged spikes and serrated blades. Hawke held her breath, waiting to see whether he would unleash the flames.

After a moment, he turned and sat, the rigid control back in place, if fragile-looking … lava boiling under the thinnest of crusts. "What would you do to restore the heart of your people?"

Hawke met his restraint with grateful empathy lined with strength. "As I said, Arishok, I am trying to prevent war for the sake of your people as well as Kirkwall." Climbing a couple of steps, she leaned into her knee, staring up at him as if he wasn't poised to rip her limb for limb. "If I can assist, please send word."

His head dropped a little, even as his men all shifted. She couldn't tell whether they prepared to attack if he gave the word or if she saw discomfort at his temper getting the better of him. After a moment, his shoulders dropped, standing down at last.

Looking up at her, his expression closed and unreadable, he said, "Thank you for your service."

Yeah, he was finished. Time to go. Hawke bowed her head. "Arishok." She backed down the stairs before turning. A chill far more piercing than a high mountain squall settled into her gut. She needed to talk to the viscount, but first, she needed to think the entire situation through. The Arishok only needed a nudge to send that landslide headed straight down on the city. It didn't take a genius to see that.

"Serah Hawke." His voice carried despite its low volume.

She paused and looked back.

"The stain is not yours."

Her heart stilled for the space of several breaths before it began racing, thumping hard and quick against her ribs. Having no idea how to react, she just held his stare for a moment, then turned back toward the gate and strode from the compound. Halfway up the stairs to Lowtown, her wind and strength faltered, and she flopped down to sit on the closest stair.

What in the name of the Maker had she just witnessed? What felt like a thousand scraps of information fluttered around inside her mind, each a hummingbird, bright with importance, but insubstantial, flitting away as fast as she tried to catch hold. Perhaps in the morning, with some rest, she might possess the necessary faculties.

She pushed herself up, her eyes drawn toward the keep at the apex of the city, a palpable miasma of dread dropping onto her shoulders, adding to the weight.

"Andraste's tits," she grumbled. When she told Viscount Dumar that the qunari were making no plans to leave Kirkwall, he'd squat down in the middle of his office and start laying eggs. Or maybe dropping kittens.

"Way too tired to deal with this tonight," she decided out loud as she continued up the very, very long staircase to Lowtown. Thinking about how many stairs awaited between her mansion and the docks dropped her gut into her boots … and made her thirsty. Very thirsty. A considering frown puckered her brow and deepened the lines of her face. She had promised Varric that she'd stop by for a drink. It would be rude not to keep her word.

Maybe Varric found Fenris as well. They could talk … spend some time just … .

The Hanged Man, it was.

" _How old was Hawke when all this began?" The Seeker leaned heavily on the back of the chair, all the lines around her eyes relaxing for the first time since he'd been dragged in. "Surely, if she had just joined the army before Ostagar, she couldn't have been much older than twenty."_

_One corner of Varric's mouth lifted in a crooked smile. "Twenty-four summers when the Arishok sent her after the poison gas." Like a large, gold, candle flame, his best friend sparked warmth and light, even in that wretched place. He glanced around, barely able to recognize the room where he'd once spent so many evenings curled up in a big armchair in front of the fire, drinking Hawke's cellar dry. She possessed an enviable taste in ale. Well, at least she had before everything fell apart._

_Now, she didn't touch the stuff and hadn't for a long time._

" _The fate of a city is a heavy weight to place on the shoulders of one so young," the Seeker replied. The haunted expression in her eyes told him that she knew from experience._

" _She handled it very well in those early years, always cheerful and focused. We never gave it a second thought … never considered that it might wear on her." He shook his head, thinking about the year or so after Hawke arrived in Kirkwall and how they'd all formed up around that steady, solid presence. "She stepped into the position of leader and never looked back. Despite her fun-loving spirit, she always radiated a sort of gravitas. It kept her grounded and pulled people into her circle, keeping them there even when it hurt her for them to stay." He shrugged, fingertips dancing over the pages, just glancing over Merrill, but when he reached Fenris, his fingers stalled._

" _The broody elf and Hawke had been making big soppy doe-eyes at one another for well over a year, so it didn't surprise us in the least when they left The Hanged Man within a couple of minutes of one another that night. We'd faced death that day, had all drank far too much, and we all have our own ways of celebrating still being alive." He shrugged and stood, ignoring how the Seeker bristled. If he sat still any longer, his backside was going to fall off._

_He paced to the fire. "I personally felt a little insulted that they considered me too clueless to figure things out, but oh well, to be young, stupid, and in love." He looked down, half-hiding a wry grin. "Even I went there once, a long time ago."_

_Varric held up the book, opened to the page where his finger acted as a bookmark. He turned the page, old anger making his gorge rise, sour and acidic. Funny how hard forgiveness came, and how much it cost. "None of us ever found out what happened that night. Neither one ever said anything, and we asked." He let out a long, bitter sigh. "Whatever took place, Hawke's heart cracked that night. As the days passed, I watched her soul bleed out, but even I had no idea how bad it would get."_


	3. Shattered Diplomacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The next day it was back to business as usual, even if all [Hawke's] jokes fell flat, and she looked like she'd start crying or screaming or maybe both if she tried to smile. She headed up to the Viscount's Keep first thing, having decided that as much as it might throw the entire city into chaos, she needed to tell Dumar about what the Arishok had said." He leaned back in his chair, hands dropping into his lap. "She never really got a chance."

_Varric watched the Seeker eat her meal. She possessed impeccable table manners for a cold blooded ... well, maybe that was a little too dramatic, but definitely good manners for a religious zealot bent on crushing the world into a mold based on her beliefs. Oh, that was a good one. He'd have to write that down._

_'She saw the world as a baker might ... the ingredients all there, but unruly, unformed ... needing nothing more than to be packed into an Andraste-shaped mold and baked until set.' He nodded to himself then stabbed another chunk of potato._

" _Decent food for a prison," he said, poking just to see if he could tilt the apple cart off its axle._

_She just huffed a little, then jutted her chin out at him. "So this Fenris hurt Hawke in some way, but you never had any idea how?"_

" _I assume that being happy with her would have seriously taken away from his brooding time, and no self-respecting, brooding ex=slave would allow that." He shook his head and set down his fork. Actually, that probably amounted to what happened. Things got intense, Fenris started to feel happy and ran. Hawke didn't slit his throat, so Varric always assumed that the elf ran before she gave him anything she could never get back._

" _The next day it was back to business as usual, even if all her jokes fell flat, and she looked like she'd start crying or screaming or maybe both if she tried to smile. She headed up to the Viscount's Keep first thing, having decided that as much as it might throw the entire city into chaos, she needed to tell Dumar about what the Arishok had said." He leaned back in his chair, hands dropping into his lap. "She never really got a chance."_

"Serah Hawke," the viscount called as she stepped through the outer door of his office. The intensity of the relief in his voice stopped her dead in her tracks. The crisis of the world seemed poised to get an early start on the day. Dumar stepped up beside his desk, gesturing for her to enter. "I am grateful you answered my summons so quickly." Hawke entered and closed the doors behind her before taking the time to really look at Kirkwall's titular leader. The viscount's pallor matched the white of the curtains in his window but for the dark circles under his eyes and at his temples. He looked so drawn and sallow that she doubted he'd slept at all.

So, something terrible had happened. Of course it had. What had he said? A summons? Hawke shrugged off the dread that formed icicles along her spine and shook her head. "I didn't receive your summons, Viscount; I was already on my way to speak with you." She studied the worry lines and shadows that clung to the planes of the man's face, aging him beyond his years. "Something has happened?"

"Of course, the Maker, in His infinite wisdom, waited until after I chastised the Arishok before alerting me to this latest disaster," the man said, a harried stare meeting her confusion for a moment. He nodded. "Yes, yes, of course. I should start at the beginning." He let out a long sigh, appearing to wilt even as he spun and walked to the window to look out over the city. "Yesterday afternoon, the Arishok made a cordial overture, sending a delegate to discuss the situation with the stolen explosives formula." His hands fluttered rather than slicing the air as the Arishok's did, an eloquent illustration of the differences between the two men.

"The talks were civil and gave me real hope that we might avoid bloodshed." Turning to face her, he folded in on himself, every bit the figure of a man on his way to his execution. His posture, defeated before the battle even began, drained what small amount of energy Hawke possessed. She could expect no support or strength from any quarter in her fight to keep Kirkwall whole. Not if the viscount let the wind toss him every which way. "The delegate and his three guards said polite goodbyes and filed from my office with precision only to disappear before reaching the outer gate."

Hawke swallowed what she'd intended to tell him about the Arishok's growing restiveness, washing it down with a gelid sludge of dread. Dumar would panic if she told him, and maybe rightly so. The tide rolled in, so damned intractable, and she didn't know if there were enough rocks to throw in front of it.

' _Then I will build a dam._ ' How boldly she'd tossed those words at the Arishok. Had a greater fool ever been born into Thedas? No sooner did she fill one crack and the shadows started hammering somewhere else, trying to smash everything apart.

"So, this delegate and his men disappeared from your front room?" Taking a step toward him, she folded her arms across her chest, her heart threatening to leap out through her ribs and run across the room, screaming. "The Arishok has been bound by his honour, Viscount. It is strong and rigid, but getting more and more brittle by the day. It could well shatter when he hears this news." No. No. No. It couldn't start falling apart already. She'd just discovered the problem, just got the first clue to start trying to solving it so the Arishok could take his men and go.

He nodded, his hands flapping again, that time they took flight from his sides only to fall back a half second later. "Someone wishes to bring our unsteady peace crashing down around us, Serah Hawke, and they are striving toward that goal with unwavering diligence." Two strides carried him to his desk where he leaned against the well-worn and oiled top. "They seem to believe that if the qunari attack, the Maker and Andraste herself will intervene on behalf of the city." He laughed, a cold, wooden sound. "I fear that the qunari will carve a path of blood through my city, and while Andraste may weep, the Maker will simply look on."

Hawke nodded. They agreed on that much at least. But … Maker's breath … after the elf and then the viscount's message, she didn't possess the slightest clue how the Arishok would receive the news of his missing people. She might well be adding the pebble that breaks the cart's axle. Suddenly buying a small farm in the bannorn looked ever so appealing.

She took a breath and refocused on the viscount. "I will do what I can, sir, but please know that although the Arishok shows some small respect for my skills, he won't be swayed by me. I don't hold that sort of influence, and when I tell him―"

"Must you tell him?" the viscount demanded, straightening and showing some real spine for the first time. "Simply look into what happened, and when you discover their fate, then you can decide what to tell him." His eyes asked obedience, but she shook her head.

Despite not being able to predict the Arishok's reaction to finding out his people were missing, she had no trouble at all imagining his wrath if she went behind his back. "If I do that, and the Arishok discovers my subterfuge ... ." She backed a couple of steps toward the door, distancing herself from the cowardly request. "No, he already thinks we're all dishonourable liars who will do anything to avoid taking responsibility. If we want to keep him calm, we need to rise above his expectations."

The Viscount nodded. "Very well, you know him best. Just try to keep him calm long enough for his ship to arrive." He turned back to the window, his hands clenched behind his back. "Although I've begun to wonder if he's lying about that ship. I'm sure I don't know why he would, but ... ." He sighed, his shoulders slumping with the exhalation.

Hawke stayed another minute, waiting to be dismissed, but the viscount seemed to have dismissed her presence, so she turned and strode out. Bran could give her the details, and maybe even a place to start looking. Then she should head over and find Aveline. Having the guard captain in her corner certainly couldn't hurt.

The dark miasma she felt looming over her the day before deepened and darkened. So many hands grabbing at threads and pulling … how could one person move fast enough to keep everything from unravelling?

She stopped outside the outer door, the memory of words that followed her from the qunari compound the evening before ringing through her head. Maybe there might be other hands willing to help. She'd have to see how the Arishok reacted to the news of his delegate's disappearance.

An hour later, she stared up at the gates to the compound, a sight that seemed to be far too familiar of late. She walked up to the guard. He looked down on her, but made no move to speak or open the gate. Apparently, the invitation did make a difference.

"I need to speak to the Arishok," she said simply, meeting his stare with weary steadiness. Explanations would only come at the absolute end of necessity. When he did not move, she sighed. "It's important."

At last he nodded and pushed open the gate.

"Thank you." As Hawke stepped through and crossed the courtyard, she wondered if she'd made a fatal error not bringing Varric, Aveline, and Anders or Merrill along with her. One woman and two cleavers didn't have a hope in hell of escaping that compound alive.

She stopped at the base of the stairs. "Arishok."

He let out a long breath, his brow shadowing narrowed eyes. "What do you want, Hawke? My list of annoyances is already longer than my patience." One hand on his knee, the other arm across his thigh, he loomed. He was very good at the whole 'avalanche of steel and death' demeanour.

"Anyone looking to avoid annoyances doesn't usually send delegates to treat with politicians, Arishok." Hawke cringed at her flippancy. What in the name of Andraste was she trying to do? Ensure she ended up dead?

He nodded, a brief flash of a weariness as great as her own showing across the broad plains of his face. "An attempt to demonstrate that the wisdom and order of the Qun are not things to be feared in a mire ruled by avarice and depravity." He leaned back, rolling his shoulders a little. "I will waste no more time speaking into deaf ears and closed minds."

His attitude gave Hawke the confidence to step up a couple of stairs. Squaring her shoulders, she set her jaw and locked down the trembling in her belly. She needed to be the embodiment of calm, empathetic strength, not a court jester failing at her juggling act. "I offer you a courtesy, Arishok. The party you sent to the viscount's office is missing." She let that fact land as she took a breath before saying, "Viscount Dumar does not know what happened. He has asked me to look into their disappearance."

The Arishok drew himself up. "You come before me alone to bring me further word of your peoples' crimes against qunari?" He stared at her for long seconds, as if debating whether or not to send the city back a message that included her head. But then he let out a long breath and leaned forward. "I have yet to decide whether you place a great deal of faith in my honour or very little value on your life."

Bowing her head slightly, Hawke let a faint smile touch her lips. "The former, Arishok, I assure you."

He relaxed back down until his forearms rested on his knees again. "Did your viscount send you to tell me of my emissary's disappearance?"

Hawke hesitated a fraction of a second too long to lie. "No, Arishok." She cursed herself for not preparing what she intended to say. Making the city look bad, or worse ... exactly what he believed it to be, was not the way to keep him calm. Sometimes, she could be such an idiot.

He laughed, two sharp, deep chuffs of sound. "So you, a simple sell-sword, would teach your great leaders honour? This place truly is a carnival of gluttons and imbeciles."

Hawke shrugged, her mouth twitching in a tiny grimace. "I don't know if I would say simple, exactly." Another single-shoulder shrug. "Or sell-sword."

He ignored her. "You will look into this yourself? Not that buffoon or his guard?" His chin tilted up as if daring her to lie to him, to prove herself no better than the rest of the bas.

"I will." She straightened, rolling her shoulders back, respect given for that shown.

A slight nod answered that. "Then I will wait, but know this, the adders' machinations and provocations bring the tide in more swiftly with each passing day. Soon, you will not be able to throw enough stones in its path." He settled into his bench even as his voice settled in his throat, rumbling from his chest, a warning that Hawke took to heart.

_Varric set down his joint of roast pork and took a long swig from the goblet of red wine sitting in front of him. That bottle had been discovered in the cellars. He'd know that vintage anywhere. He stabbed a chunk of boiled potato and shoved it in his mouth, so hungry his stomach felt sure his throat had been cut._

" _So, anyway," he mumbled around the flaming demon potato even as he tried to blow away its heat. "Hawke knew that the Arishok's patience hung by a thread, and that she needed to bring back the delegate and his guards alive or the entire city was in danger." Chewing quickly as he inhaled, he managed to get it small enough to swallow. It clung to the walls of his throat, taking its vengeance all the way down. After chasing it with a long draught of the wine, he went back to the pork._

" _Since she was headed up the many stairs anyway," he said before taking a bite, "she stopped to grab me and Isabela at the Hanged Man on the way to the viscount's keep. She knew if we were getting involved with corrupt guards, we'd need Aveline."_

_The seeker leaned back in her chair and plucked the napkin from her lap, placing it with genteel grace next to her plate to cover the waste. Varric just grinned as her lip curled a little as she watched him eat. Odd for her to be discomfited by boorish table manners with everything else she faced in her day to day. One shoulder popped, shrugging off her disapproval as he gnawed at the joint of roast pork, grease running down his chin and between his fingers._

" _How did Hawke find the qunari? Or did she?" She lifted the napkin and began to twist it between her fingers, her eyes focusing on the task._

" _Oh, she found them. When we knew that they disappeared from the Keep, we knew guards had to have been either involved or bribed. Aveline said that none of her people were missing from their stations or patrols, so that meant bought." He set down the stripped joint and reached across to pull a large chunk of meat from the roast. "That led back to the Hanged Man and an off duty guard with a lot of extra coin … and orders that displayed the seal of the Grand Cleric." Chuckling, he nodded as her large eyes sprang wide, her mouth working helplessly for a moment._

_Then she rolled her eyes and sighed. "Mother Petrice. Of course."_

" _Naturally." Varric shot a sardonic glance across the table at her. "You're getting good at this, Seeker. We might make a storyteller out of you, yet."_

" _A liar, you mean." She jutted her chin at him. "Just continue."_

" _We ran back up the stairs to hightown and the chantry to ask the grand cleric about her seal being used so conspicuously. Mother Petrice intercepted us with piles of tripe about the grand cleric trusting her stewards to enact the Maker's will and templars become fanatics. She gave Hawke the location of her templar protector's hideaway, inviting us to come see the unrest the qunari presence was causing. Judging by the knots in Hawke's jaw, it took all her control to keep her cleavers on her back, but she agreed, and we headed to the undercity to try to outrun the dropping sand."_

_The seeker straightened in her chair, leaning forward, elbows braced to either side of her plate. "Surely, Hawke must have know it was a trap after what Petrice tried the last time?"_

_Varric opened his mouth to point out that she had her elbows on the table, then thought better of it and just continued with his tale._

Silence never ruled the undercity. The tunnels roared with the echoed sounds of life at all times, conversations multiplying as they bred with water dripping and running, footsteps thumping and scuffling, and of course, metal clashing with metal. Not many minutes of the day went by when the denizens weren't embroiled in trying to kill each other.

But not that day.

"So, Hawke," Varric grumbled from behind her as she stepped down what should be the last set of stairs. "How much of a trap do you think this is?"

Glancing back, Hawke saw Bianca swinging side to side, in constant motion as Varric swept for ambushes and traps. She winced and shook her head, her reply sour with the certainty of betrayal despite its teasing lilt, "Come on, Varric. When hasn't it all been a trap?" She thumped a hand on his shoulder before turning back to the path ahead. Gratitude warmed her, even in that cold, stinking hole. "For all your grumbling, you're an optimist at heart. I love that about you." Hell ... she loved him. Few people could claim a truer friend.

"Oh, admit it," he said, chuckling, "you love everything about me."

Hawke shot a grin his way, but as she rounded the last corner, it died and fell from her face. A soft curse greeted the sight of the four qunari standing tied to the far wall. Although their swords remained bound into their sheaths, if she could get one of the men loose and slip him a dagger, he could free the rest of his fellows. At least then they'd stand a fighting chance.

She edged sideways as she entered the large chamber, more and more civilians revealed until she counted their number at over a hundred. Damn Petrice. All those people, just desperate folk hoping for better lives, hoping to win favour with the Maker, all searching for something on which they could blame their suffering. Damn the revered mother for giving them that scapegoat.

Every eye in the space focused on Hawke as she rounded the corner.

Varnell met her stare, a cold, ugly smile twisting his face. The templar had been waiting for her before launching into his finale. She blew out a long, noisy sigh, as waves of disgust and nausea rolled through her. Judging by the dark splotches of bruising and the blood caked to the delegate's body, Varnell's performance had been going on for hours.

The templar turned to the people assembled there and threw up his hands. "People! Loyal servants of the Maker, behold the terrible qunari. Look upon them and ask yourselves why you fear these heretics. Fear them not, for they are absent from the sight of the Maker. They are beasts, and like any beast, remove their fangs and they are lost. The Maker's light lends us His might, and they tremble, weak and powerless, before our faith."

When Varnell turned away from her to stand face to face with the qunari emissary, Hawke took advantage of his distraction to edge around the outside of the chamber. She just needed to get close enough to get her cleavers between Varnell and his victims. Glancing back, she signalled Aveline to take Isabela around the other way.

Slipping between people, Hawke sent silent thanks to Ser Barclay Withers and his lessons in stealth. Despite loving the game, her eight-year-old self had never been sure how sneaking up on birds and cats would ever have any real life applications.

"They are not mighty!" Varnell's bellow yanked her attention to the dagger in his hand. "They are lost from the Maker's sight, and they are powerless in the hands of the righteous, the only certainty … death." He dragged the point of the dagger down the qunari's chest.

"Varnell!" Hawke shouted, leaping out from between followers and into the zealot's line of sight. Too late. The templar sneered at Hawke as he punched the dagger into the qunari's side. The delegate reeled for a moment, nearly going down, but then recovered to snarl down in his captor's face.

_You must get between them. If he will torture men like that, he will not hesitate to kill._

"Beasts?" Hawke stepped forward, trying to draw Varnell away from the prisoners. "Four  _men_  stand before me tied, their swords bound because they went in peace to treat with the viscount. They offered no threat to anyone, and you call them the animals? For all you fear the qunari, yours are the only people who have killed."

She threw a hand toward the prisoners as she addressed the rest of the mob. "I implore you. Look at them. They are men. Not like you, but if that is sufficient cause to torture and murder people, then step away from them and come after me." She pulled her cleavers from her back and rolled one wrist, then the other. "Right now, I don't believe we're even the same species."

"Sir Varnell!"

Hawke sighed at the sound of Mother Petrice's voice. Now things couldn't help but go to hell. She glanced toward the entry as the mother strode into the space, all fire and righteous arrogance, strutting like a halla stag.

"You were saying, Hawke?" Varric grumbled under his breath, moving back toward the entrance. She raised her eyebrows and shifted to give him cover. Behind her, he positioned himself to give Bianca the room she needed to work.

"Turn these men loose," Hawke called over the mother's voice. "Turn them loose, and I'll let you all leave here, alive. That's the only chance you'll get ... the only deal I'll offer. Trade killing them for taking a shot at me. They're pretty banged up. If you take me down, who knows, maybe you can still catch them and have your little lynching."

"Sir Varnell, what have you done? What is all of this?" Petrice called, her voice ringing off the walls to echo back like a chorus. Hawke grimaced at the tone, one set to incite, not to calm the situation down. Not that she had expected Petrice to come in and help, but would a pleasant surprise be so terrible once in a while?

"Someone shut her up," Varric grumbled from just behind Hawke's elbow.

Varnell spun to face Petrice, a beatific smile twisting his features into something that chased Hawke's stomach up her throat.

"Take a knee, faithful servants of the Maker, children of Andraste," he called, sweeping his hands into air as if calling the benediction of the Maker down upon them all. "The chantry sends its most devout to bless our actions."

Petrice scoffed, the sound cold enough to freeze mid-summer. "Varnell, have you fallen so far? How dare you use the seal and authority of the grand cleric to commit this act? You have called wrath down upon her office."

Hawke nodded to Aveline and Isabela, using the distraction to move everyone in.

"Serah Hawke has come to exact righteous vengeance on behalf of the qunari!" Petrice bellowed. "Will you surrender, do you believe the Maker's blessing protects you? Do these qunari truly dwell outside his light?"

"Oh shit," Varric cursed, voicing the heavy flip of dread in Hawke's gut. Bianca unfurled, playing her mechanical music.

Hawke launched herself at Varnell and the prisoners, but a stride out of reach of her blades, his arm lashed out and blood sprayed from a deep gash across the qunari delegate's throat.

"The Void take you," she yelped, dismay and fury mixing into an acid virulent enough to melt flesh from bone. "You would condemn the entire city with your madness!" Leaping the last few feet, she turned her fury and despair loose upon him.

"Better to die as servants of the Maker's will than to suffer the heretics' corruption." Varnell flew at her, his shield bullying aside her cleavers, forcing an opening for his sword.

She slipped aside, spinning clear of his blow, then turned his momentum against him. Revenge and the Shank cut him down in three smoothly executed moves. She tried to form a wall of slashing steel between the remaining qunari and the fanatics, but it was too late. They lay slumped on the floor, cut down by pitchforks and rusted blades, their swords still tied into their scabbards.

As their leader fell, the mob froze, giving Hawke a single, crystalline moment of hope. Then, uttering a single roar of fury from many lungs, Varnell's followers lunged toward the small group of companions, a stampede that only death would turn. Despite being armed with old weapons and farm implements, their sheer numbers forced Hawke to retreat. The wide space gave the mob the advantage, so Hawke pulled her people back to the cargo elevator, thinning the zealot's ranks even as they pulled back. Some of the back ranks, seeing their fellows cut down like weeds, fled. Hawke let them go. Enough blood had been shed. Enough blood had been shed to last her a hundred lifetimes, each death stealing a drop of her own until her heart pumped vacuum, her veins just desiccated roots of a dead tree.

When the last zealot fell, she knelt to wipe the gore from her cleavers before hanging them between her shoulder blades. "Aveline, can you and Isabela fetch the viscount, please?" she asked, her voice coming out every bit as dull, exhausted, and beaten down as she felt. All the fire and acid churning at her core cooled, freezing into a nauseated lump in the pit of her gut.

"Hawke?" Varric's voice made her wince. He used a lot of tones of voice in a day: loud and boisterous as he regaled his audience with the high point of a story, sly and sneaky when trying to pull one over on someone, rough and strong when dealing with his guild … the caring friend when it was just the two of them … trusted companions, closer than most siblings after all their trials. She'd heard him worried, afraid, and furious, but never that careful pity … as if afraid that she'd shatter if he spoke too loudly. Maker, she hated it. The last thing she needed after Fenris's abrupt departure the night before was sympathy.

"I'm fine, Varric." She stood. "Let's prepare these bodies for the guard to move them, and see if we can find any solid evidence to link Petrice to all of this."

" _The viscount showed up an hour later, leaving his guards outside. Hawke showed him what had been done to the qunari … the evidence of torture, and he asked her whether it wouldn't be better to cover it all up." Varric sighed and shrugged. "She couldn't of course. She might have been the only person I knew with a sense of honour as rigid as the Arishok's."_

" _So, she told the Arishok the truth?" the Seeker's eyebrows lifted a little. "Dangerous."_

" _Even more so because she sent the rest of us home. She led the guards carrying the bodies through the undercity and into the qunari compound, but then sent them away as well. If the Arishok took vengeance for his fallen men, she didn't want anyone else paying that price."_

" _Alone?" The napkin stopped twisting in the Seeker's hand. "Was she truly that confident in the Arishok's honour? Or simply that mad?"_

_Varric laughed, his eyes drifting away from his dinner companion to the fire. "Oh, Hawke was mad to a degree. All good fighters are. They have to be part mad person, part masochist, part in love with death, and for the ones like Hawke, possessed of a heart far too large for their own good."_

"Hawke." The Arishok gave nothing away as the guard laid out the bodies of the slain qunari.

She stood over them until the guard retreated back through the gate, then stepped up to the base of the stairs. "Apologies, Arishok. When I arrived, your men were still alive, but I did not move fast enough."

"And again, even with this news, you come before me alone?" He stood, and walked down three steps. "Do you not fear my wrath? My retribution?"

She met and held that dark gaze without flinching. Something in those eyes reminded her of … something … she couldn't place it, but some dim, unreasonable part of her mind just trusted him. "If there must be an accounting for my failure, I will face it. The responsibility is mine."

Heavy steps thumped down two more stairs until he stood so close that she could feel the heat off his body. "Yes." The word dropped like a stone into mud or heavy sand. He stood there, looming over her for a few seconds, then stepped around her and continued down to stand over the bodies. "Explain the state of my delegate."

She turned to look at the ruined forms, trying not to wince in the face of what must have been nearly a day of horrendous torture. "The abuse of zealots, Arishok. A fanatic … a templar I've dealt with before … used your men to incite hatred … to prove the superiority of their righteousness."

He glanced at her, then turned and returned to his bench. He sat, settled himself and then acknowledged her explanation with a slight nod. "I accept that."

"Arishok?" His answer gave Hawke no hints whether or not she could release the breath beating at the inside of her lungs. He seemed remarkably at ease for having just been handed back four mutilated bodies.

He sat, large hands resting on his knees. "I have borne witness to your kind wallowing in the mire of vice and weakness, beasts unable to lift themselves out of their own filth. You drown and call out for others, or your gods, to save you. You blame others for your suffering, dragging them into the mire with you." The lines etched into his brow and around his mouth softened slightly. "Duty and responsibility are concepts as foreign to your kind as breathing underwater."

Hawke shifted a little, not sure which shoe would drop. Her breath struggled past the fist that had punched through her ribs.

"Your viscount is a weak fool who hopes that closing his eyes and piling wishes at the feet of his Maker will save him." He relaxed down, forearms draped across his thighs. "You are not." The pale silver of his eyes seemed to gleam as he tilted his head, the light catching them under that heavy brow. "Panahedan, Hawke. I will keep one good thought about your kind."

Bowing her head, she stepped back. "Thank you, Arishok. Perhaps we may yet find enough stones to keep the tide at bay."

Once out the gate, Hawke let out the breath she'd been holding and turned to the stairs to Lowtown. Three steps up, she stalled and turned back, heading for the lower docks. As much as she wanted to argue for her people … as much as she wanted to hold up noble exemplars, to prove to the Arishok that her people weren't just what he saw … days like that one hit like a boot to the gut.

People seemed to let her down on every front. No matter how hard she tried to walk the paths she needed to in order to help others, the destination always seemed to turn out the same. Her standing there, jaw hanging while whomever had just thrown shite in her face walked away. Sometimes she felt as though the Maker ran some terrible joke at her expense. Never there on time, never able to save people … betrayed constantly. She glanced over her shoulder at the qunari compound to see a large, familiar figure standing in the gap atop the wall. His gaze burned like the sun, but the ache in her chest settled a little as she looked up at him. After a couple of seconds, she turned and continued down the stairs.

After wandering for about a quarter-glass, the stone at her feet giving way to water. Looking up, she saw that she'd made her way down to the deepest, darkest section of the dock complex. The cool shade and lapping water eased her eyes closed. Odd that one of the places most likely to reward her ease with a knife stuck in her back felt so restful.

Sitting on the lowest step, she tugged off her boots and let her legs dangle in the cool water. A long sigh dragged from her lips as the gentle waves swirled around her feet, caressing them far more tenderly than even Fen—

Slipping down until her elbows braced on her knees, her brow resting in her hands, she shut her eyes and let misery cover her in its thick cloak. Tears burned the corners of her eyes, but she squeezed her eyes shut, crushing them. No one got her tears, not any more. No one deserved them.

Time passed without meaning or measure. She needed to go home. No, she needed to go to the viscount, and maybe even the grand cleric, to let them know about the scene in the undercity. Surely Petrice had gotten to Elthina first, but the grand cleric was no fool, and Hawke believed that she had earned the woman's regard by aiding Sebastian while still tempering the young prince's drive for revenge. At least, she hoped she had.

A rock clattered down the nearby stairs, yanking her attention from her thoughts. She leapt to her feet, her cleavers settling easily into her hands, but she didn't see anyone there.

"Hello?" She climbed the stairs, balanced and nimble on her toes. "Come out. If you don't mean me any harm, none will come to you. Do you need help? Hello?" She circled around a pillar and looked up the stairs, catching a quick flash of grey and red at the top. Qunari? She hung her cleavers back in their place and returned to fetch her boots. Time to get to the Keep, get things wrapped up. Weariness would not wait forever, and her bed called her home.

" _Despite everything people say about them … brutes, monsters, heretics … the qunari respect integrity," Varric said softly, turning the page. "Hawke had been earning the Arishok's respect for years, but that moment … when she stood alone before him and claimed responsibility for his dead men … I believe that was when everything changed."_


	4. At the end of the day, all that remains ... .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dark chill outside the windows pressed in, invading the sitting room until the fire's heat no longer reached him. "We got back to the estate to find her uncle waiting. Leandra was supposed to visit him in his hovel in Lowtown that day." He smiled, an expression of sweet memories mixed with sadness. Even mentioning the Amell matron wrapped him in her motherly warmth and comfort, but her horrifying death … well, that was when everything changed. It marked the moment his life changed even more drastically than after Bartrand abandoned them in the deep roads.

 

_Varric looked up at the Seeker, searching for any sign of compassion in that cold, hard face. Had the story moved her in the slightest? For the life of him, he couldn't tell._

" _A week later, I dragged Hawke up the Sundermount for a day's hunting. I thought it might cheer her up." He chuckled, but it didn't even fool him, coming out soft and sad. "She wasn't much for the hunting; she had too soft a heart to kill animals that didn't try to kill her first. Well, and being a dual wielder, she was never much good at it. It's hard to take out a ram or hart with a pair of cleavers." He flipped the page, the likeness of his friend posed with those very cleavers stared up at him, looking most impressive._

" _I hear she is very good with them," the Seeker offered._

" _Back then, she was good." He shrugged, scrunching his nose up a little. "Too cocky by far, but at least competent enough to cash all the notes she wrote." He let out a long breath and closed the book. He couldn't tell the next part and look at her image. It all still hurt too much. "Anyway, she wasn't much for hunting, but she enjoyed getting out of the city and stretching her legs. From what she said about her home in Ferelden, it was about as different from Kirkwall as one could get."_

_The dark chill outside the windows pressed in, invading the sitting room until the fire's heat no longer reached him. "We got back to the estate to find her uncle waiting. Leandra was supposed to visit him in his hovel in Lowtown that day." He smiled, an expression of sweet memories mixed with sadness. Even mentioning the Amell matron wrapped him in her motherly warmth and comfort, but her horrifying death … well, that was when everything changed. It marked the moment his life changed even more drastically than after Bartrand abandoned them in the deep roads._

_He focused on the seeker, pushing his emotions back behind the storyteller wall. "Hawke and Bethany came by their soft hearts naturally, being raised by a woman so dedicated to caring for others. Even with everything Gamlen had done, she took him meals a couple of times a week ... stocked his larder. Orana and Bodahn usually went along to help clean his home, but a flu had just gone through the house, and Sandal remained under the weather. Leandra insisted that they stay to care for him."_

_Varric closed his eyes, that horrific night reaching down into him with the long, icy talons of a shade. "Hawke wasn't worried until she saw the white lilies on the drawing room table."_

" _All those women the years before ... ." The Seeker set down her utensils, leaving her dessert untouched, and leaned back, lifting her napkin to blot her face. "Didn't Ghyslain de Carrac say that his wife had been sent white lilies just before she disappeared? And Gascard DuPuis said his sister's murderer sent lilies" Her face paled. "I heard rumours, but ... Maker's breath ... Hawke's mother?"_

_Varric nodded. "Hawke ran out of the mansion like the archdemon itself bit at her heels, and didn't stop until she'd gathered all of us, even Fenris, in the Lowtown market."_

Terror and panic pursued Hawke through the streets, slavering and howling like a pack of mad hounds. They tore at her heels and leapt up, raking her back with razor-sharp claws as she crossed the bridge from Hightown and raced down the long sets of stairs, reaching the bottom gasping, but still running. Her friends raced in from every direction, but for Fenris, who had tracked her most of the way, staying just out of sight. Near Elegant's kiosk, Gamlen held a boy by the collar of his shirt, shaking the poor lad within a finger's breadth of his life.

"Uncle!" she called, her voice tight with panic and fury. "Put the lad down. For pity's sake, do you think he could be responsible?" Despite her words, gratitude stabbed through her like a qunari spear. Dealing with her uncle gave her something to focus on, a bullseye for the caustic brew threatening to explode out through her belly.

Snatching at Gamlen's shoulder, she pulled him off the child, the already deep scowl etched into her face turning almost feral when she saw the boy's black eye. "Tell me you didn't strike this child?" she said, black ice sliding through every word.

"Nah, he didn't hit me, Miss. Got this in a tussle with some other boys." He looked back and forth between them. "What do I get if I saw her, anyway? Don't get anything for nothing down here. Everything's got its price." Chin sticking out as if to challenge them to deny the truth of his words, he leaned back and thumped his arms down across his chest.

Hawke's panic eased back, soothed a little … or perhaps just numbed by the twin runnels of amusement and sorrow that twined around her heart. So many like him.

_Not the time, Mari. Find your mother, then stop to gnash your teeth and wring your hands over the orphans._

"Here, take these, and keep quiet about it." She passed him ten silver. "You'll end up with a knife in your back if you go around telling the world about them."

"Silver?" His squawk carried, echoing off the buildings, but then he winced and turned eager eyes back to Hawke. Heartbreakingly young. "Yes, ser … I saw the lady. She were headed that way, toward the bridge, but then this man just sort of ran right into her." He acted out the scene with great relish, hands gesturing wildly, busted up face animated. "The man was spurting blood everywhere. I never saw anything like it. He fell over, see, and she bent down to help. Sorta shook his shoulder a bit."

Hawke's guts fell into her boots. Great Maker, why did her mother always have to help? They lived in a city of apostate blood mages and … . She sliced the head off that snake and threw it onto the ground. Getting angry might keep her moving, but she couldn't aim that anger at her mother. She didn't deserve it, not just for being kind.

"And then what happened?" Gamlen demanded, looking set to grab the boy again. Once again, gratitude pulled Hawke back on course, and she jumped between them, annoyance flaring out at her uncle.

"Well, he sorta mumbled a bit." The boy shrugged and twisted his mouth a little, making a show of thinking. "Might have been 'help'. So anyways, she got him up. He kept falling into her and stumbling around. Me and the boys were laughing, cuz … well, it's funny, right? Anyway, she helped him go that way." He pointed in the direction of The Hanged Man then shrugged again, boney shoulders popping. "I don't know how he weren't dead though. Blood was everywhere, spurting outta him like … ." He flailed a little, unable to come up with a big enough word.

Aveline strode up, breathing hard, but not winded as Hawke had been. "I have guards searching every route between Hightown and the docks." She stopped between the urchin and Hawke. "Do we have any leads to follow?"

"She helped someone who was hurt." Hawke nodded and shoved another few silvers into the boy's pocket before she turned to her friends. "We have to follow the blood."

Gamlen backed up a few steps, his head shaking as if his body fled the inevitable. "I'm going home. Maybe she will go there. I … ." He spun and ran the opposite direction of the blood.

Hawke didn't watch him go, but turned and headed for the first blood spot. Maker, the boy was right, so much blood … how hadn't he died right there? The answer churned in her gut, tears of panic stabbing needles into the corners of her eyes. She shook them away. No! Just no.

"Hawke," Anders's voice whispered over her shoulder, a gentle hand touching her arm, "you know what this blood means."

She threw off his hand. Demons take his confirmation of what the rusted blades already whirling in her gut told her … and his comfort. Choking on the lump in her throat, she spun and bolted from their sympathetic stares. Her footsteps pounded out a countdown, her heart surging into her throat and squeezing out between her ribs. No more loss. She couldn't take any more … .

_Please, Andraste, bride of the Maker, protect her. Keep her safe until I find her. Please._

The blades carved a mocking jibe into her bones—she had no idea how long her mother had been missing. Had she witnessed a single example of Andraste or the Maker exhibiting any power over the cruelties and brutalities of man? Her father, so kind and strong … Ostagar … Carver … Bethany … . A choked sob tore loose before she could stop it, but she threw it aside and ran faster, skimming from blood splatter to blood splatter.

After a tenth-glass, she looked up, the rusted, jagged spikes of metal sticking out of everywhere dropping her heart and her hope into freefall. The foundry district.

"Hawke, isn't this where we found … ?" Varric's voice died out as she raced up the stairs.

No. No. No. Not that. Anything but that. Her sweet mother … . Another sob escaped. For a moment, her courage faltered, her hand stalling on the way to the door handle. What if … dear Maker, what if they found her as they had … .

Aveline reached around her and opened the door, a discreet hand guiding Hawke through, pushing but not forcefully. The guard captain squeezed Hawke's fingers. Then the ice freezing her into place shattered, and she burst through onto the sawdust covered floor. Fires burned under all the smelting cauldrons, but the blood bypassed them all, heading toward the upper level.

Heart leaping from frozen straight to racing like a rabbit's, Hawke sprinted for the stairs, not slowing as she turned at their base. Boots slipping, she scrambled, nearly falling before she slammed a hand into the railing and grabbed hold. Pain crushed the hand like a mallet, but she yanked herself back onto her feet and leaped up the stairs three at a time. Where did it go? Lungs burning, heart hammering so hard that she could barely hear over it, she spun in place, frantic eyes scanning for blood.

There, blood in the sawdust along the walkway. She bolted to the corner, the trail leading to an open door. How had the bastard not bled out, blood mage or no? Legs exhausted and trembling, she pushed herself back into a run, grabbing hold of the door frame to pull herself around without slowing. Drips and splatters drew a much easier to follow path over floorboards, leading her to a trapdoor in the corner.

"Looks like he was in too much of a hurry to hide his entrance this time," Varric said even as Hawke yanked the cover open.

"Hawke!" Aveline grabbed Hawke's arm as she crouched to jump down. "We can't rush in. We're no help to Leandra if we get ourselves killed on the way to save her."

Hawke tore her wrist loose. "Tell me that when it's your mother." She sat on the edge and lowered herself halfway before letting herself drop into a low crouch. Shrugging her cleavers into her hands, she moved away from the ladder to let the others follow. Knowing Aveline was right, she waited until Fenris and Anders hit the bottom before setting out for the nearby stairs.

The smell hit her in the face like a haymaker thrown by an ogre. Decay and sweet herbs and chemicals mixed into a stench so noxious she wished she could cut her nose off. When she hit the bottom of the stairs, she spotted a small area sectioned off on the side. Through the opening, she could see a cot and a couple of tables. One of them nearly yanked her spine from her body and left her to puddle on the ground. She'd seen those in the slaver cavern. Her blood turned to ice. The ones in the slaver cavern had been covered in blood from Hadriana's rituals.

Movement from the other end of the chamber dragged her back from the abyss: a rage demon and a handful of shades. She roared a guttural challenge and dashed toward them, leaping the last few feet to bring both blades down into the demon's head. Whoever had taken her mother could throw as many demons and monsters at her as he wanted. He could raise every body of everyone who had ever died in the Free Marches, but he would not stop her from finding her mother.

The battle ended in seconds, her fury and her companions carving through the creatures without any of them even taking a wound. Hawke turned toward the side area, stalling a little as she saw someone lying on a cot. Heart pounding out a frantic cadence of hope, she ran over, almost calling for her mother before she realized the woman on the cot wore a dress unlike the one her mother had been wearing that morning. That, and her hair … no, not her mother.

Still, she bent over the body, the smell coming off of it telling her that it had been dead for several days. Rolling it over, she found herself looking into the dead eyes of Alessa, the girl captured by Gascard DuPuis. "Alessa," she whispered, "I'm so sorry."

"Is it … ?" Aveline's formidable gut finally failed her as the question stumbled to a halt.

"Alessa." Hawke turned away, returning to her hunt for clues. A scrap of paper lay on a crate a few feet away. She strode over and picked it up. The first time she read it, she could have sworn it had been written in a foreign language. Dizziness and nausea took hold, spinning her around until the words swam before her eyes.

"Hawke?" Anders stepped around her and eased the paper from her fingers. "Dear Maker."

"He is taking them apart and trying to preserve them?" She spun on the mage, ramming herself right up in his face. "Is there any end to the nightmares that magic can produce?"

Anders took her by the shoulders, his sad, gentle smile easing back the rage and the terror causing it. "I understand, but you need to stay calm and strong."

"And we need to move," Aveline added, her voice shoring up the steel in Hawke's spine.

"Yes." Hawke clapped a hand over Anders's wrist in a vague gesture of thanks, and pushed past, lifting into a quick jog. The roaring fire that drove her on waged war against the ice storm that warned her that she did not want to see what lie at the end of the road. In the end, it was the thought of her mother, alone and terrified, that shut them both up. No matter how horrible the end, she needed to find her mother, to bring her home.

Impossibly, as they moved further into the undercity, the smell grew stronger and stronger until it was all Hawke could do to keep the gagging from escalating into heaving. Behind her, Varric muttered a nonstop litany of curses interspersed with enough retching to convince her the diatribe was all that kept him from heaving his supper as well.

She found another torn diary page blown up against a wall. It waxed poetic about the missing mage's—Mharen—hands. Maker … raving about being able to hold her hands again. Hawke stuffed the coarse, browned paper in her belt pouch. As she straightened to continue on, she caught a glimmer in the sawdust, a faint gleam that beckoned her over.

Crouching, she bit down on her bottom lip and brushed aside the filthy wood shavings and dirt to uncover a small gold locket. Her breath hitched as she lifted it in trembling fingers. Her mother's. She did not need to open it to know what lie within. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed the locket to her lips and sent a half-formed prayer … a hope … to the Maker and His bride.

"Hawke?" Isabela asked, her voice pitched low and soft as she spoke for the first time. "What is it?"

Unable to force words out past the twisted ball of wire wrapped around her throat, she merely held it out behind her. She needed to keep moving. Her mother might still be alive … no, she was. She had to be.

"How pretty," Merrill said, her voice lilting and sad. Hawke had scarcely noticed the little dalish mage. They had spent more than their fair share at one another's throats, but gratitude washed the annoyance away. Despite it all, Merrill had come to help.

A few steps in, she lurched to a stop, looking out over what appeared to be a living area. Fancy antiques stood amidst the refuse of the undercity and a mess of books and papers. Over top of the fireplace stood a painting. Maggots hatched in her belly, slow and sluggish, they began to wriggle, crawling through her insides.

"That looks just like … ." Varric stepped up next to her. "What is all this about?"

Hawke just ran to the stairs, knowing that he didn't expect an answer. None of them knew, even though she could never have guessed anything as ugly as the picture forming in her head.

She didn't pause to look at the painting. She'd seen enough from above. What she needed was some sort of idea of what he was doing with her mother, or where to find her. The others however, all stopped to stare.

"Andraste guide us," Sebastian whispered, "and stand with the good woman who faces such dark perils at the hands of this evil. May she find comfort in your presence." He turned away, shuffling uneasily.

"Maker's breath," Anders whispered, crouching to look through the books on the floor. "Necromancy … all of them." He looked over at Hawke, but she avoided his eyes. "Whoever he is … ." The mage lifted a note. "And someone at the circle is helping him ... they signed as O."

Hawke bent to lift up a handful of papers, throwing them aside as she rifled through them. She stopped, finding another diary page. It spoke about it being his anniversary, and his hopes to have his work completed for the occasion. He was only missing … Hawke's knees gave out, sending her stumbling into the table. … a face. The maggots doubled and then tripled, wriggling furiously as they gnawed at her gut.

She looked up at that painting of her mother's face, her brain and her heart refusing to accept the truth that shrine presented. "Oh, Maker," she whispered, the words coming out in a low whine. "Maker, please. No." The diary page could not mean what it seemed to mean. She squeezed her eyes shut hard, trying to block out the box of bloody bones and parts they had found years before. No. How could anyone be so mad or so cruel?

A thin-boned, long-fingered hand gripped her shoulder, distracting her from the answer. She threw it off. "Don't touch me." Her voice rumbled deep in her chest, fury bubbling like acid as she met Fenris's eyes for the first time since that night. She shoved the elf aside, looking past him to the magical barrier blocking the way forward … trying to pretend that touch had not cracked her already fractured heart open like an eggshell.

As Anders strode to the barrier, staff rising to dispel it, the ground under Hawke's feet began to tremble and crack open. Her cleavers settled easily into her hands, the blades glinting, hungry and anxious. She tore into the first skeleton before it even cleared its shoulders from the floor and leaped to the next. Again, the battle lasted mere seconds … the necromancer's pets no threat to eight skilled opponents.

Another hallway passed at a dead sprint, Hawke barrelling through without thought as to traps or ambushes. She spotted the necromancer as she ran through a narrow entry, but did not pause to stare. Her mother was nowhere in sight. As she slowed at the bottom of the stairs, the droning of flies joined the crackle of fires. It swelled to where the sound felt like a living thing, trying to crawl inside her head. Madness and death battered at her, her skull threatening to give way under the onslaught.

The necromancer crouched facing a large armchair, his hands busy out of Hawke's sight. He straightened, but his eyes remained fixed on the chair.

Hawke lunged for him, demanding, "Where is my mother?" Her cleavers sliced the air as she rolled her wrists, the weapons eager to begin the dance. She stopped a couple dozen feet away. "Release her."

"Leandra knew you would come." He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and discoloured by deep circles; the eyes of someone so caught up in his madness that even sleep could not break through. "She'll be so happy to have you here for the ceremony."

"Ceremony?" The word came out razor-edged even as Hawke tried to force her face into flat, neutral planes. She stepped to her right, edging around to flank him. From the corner of her eye, she saw her people spreading out, automatically moving into their most advantageous positions. She heard boots on the stairs as Varric and Sebastian climbed for a better vantage point. "My mother is not your wife." She held her hands out in an appeasing gesture, despite the cleavers in her grip.

She caught a glimpse of a narrow ankle in front of the chair. Thank the Maker. If her mother could sit, she could still walk out of that place. At least, she could once the necromancer's corpse laid out on the ground for the giant spiders and rats to gnaw on.

"You can't understand how strong love is," he cried, pacing a few frantic steps then back. "Strong enough to pull me through these years of agony." He wrung his hands neatly. "I've searched for so long, worked tirelessly, and now I've succeeded. I have risen to touch the glory of the Maker." A beatific smile twisted his gaunt features into a horror. "It took me so long to find her eyes, her skin, her feet … her hands. Oh, her perfect hands." The smile softened as his eyes lost focus. "I watched her sew or play the lute for hours, enraptured by the grace of her long, slender fingers. And now, her face. Her lovely face."

Hawke scowled as the fear returned and in its wake the fury. "What do you mean? Spare me the raving, and speak plainly." She stalked forward, ready to kill and find answers later. Her words came out razor sharp, each edge cutting as she flung them at him. "What have you done with my mother?"

He looked down, lifting a hand, caressing someone—her mother … dear Maker—with the backs of his fingers. "She is right here, waiting for you. She was so hoping you would make it to the wedding."

Hawke leapt forward, cleavers coming up to strike, but then the woman in the chair shifted, a pale hand reaching up to take his. He stepped back to help her up, and like something from a nightmare, her mother stood. Head and arms hanging, swinging loose … almost boneless, the woman … no, the creature … that he'd created shambled forward. Pale, fishscale eyes gleamed in the low light, lines of sutures red and meaty … Hawke threw up.

She heaved until nothing more came up, the sound of battle registering dimly in the background, but before the retching stopped, she threw herself at the necromancer. Tears and spittle dripping down her face, Hawke carved into the bastard just to have her cleavers bounce off his magical barrier.

"Anders! Merrill!" she screamed. The horror of the monster her mother had been turned into stripped away every last piece of reason and humanity, leaving Hawke feral … desperate to feel her blades carve into his flesh. They hungered for it. Her arms ached, screaming to feel steel bite deep. Her skin thirsted for his blood, and she would soak in it.

The moment Hawke saw the necromancer's barrier fall, a strange blindness fell over her. Everything became sharper, more focused … the colours clearer and more brilliant than anything she'd seen, even back in Lothering. And yet she felt as if she saw nothing, felt nothing … her body numb, operating of its own volition. So she watched and revelled as her blades sliced through skin and muscle, sinew and artery until he crumpled.

A horrific sound crept in, bleeding in through the shell of her body until it reverberated within her skull, deafening her with the broken, banshee wail of it. Only when she saw her friends standing in a rough circle, staring at her with expressions of crushing, brutalizing compassion and sorrow, did she realize the sound was tearing from her own throat.

"Mari."

Hawke's name in her mother's sweet, soft voice broke the spell. She spun, shouldered her cleavers, jumping to Leandra's side in time to catch her. The necromancer dead, the magic sustaining the corpse her mother's … Hawke winced and shook her head. No. No, it wasn't the time for the grim reality. It was time to hold her mother, cradled in her arms just as Leandra had once held her, and comfort the beautiful soul as it departed what had been an unfairly hard life.

_You can be strong for her._

"Mother." She settled Leandra so that her mother leaned back against her shoulder, her head resting in the space between Hawke's neck and pauldron. "Oh, Mother, I'm so sorry. I wasn't fast enough."

The ashen face smiled, silvered eyes looking up into Hawke's. "Sh, darling. You came. You're here. That is all that has ever mattered." One hand reached up to brush at the blood and tears staining Hawke's cheeks. "You have always been so brave. I never understood where all that courage came from." The words whispered off, becoming weaker. "Perhaps it was your father."

Hawke hugged her mother tight. Surely, she should be able to will life and warmth into that slight, fragile frame. What good was she? What purpose did she hold on the Maker-forsaken earth if not that one, simple thing? She pressed her slick lips together to still their trembling, the taste of blood metallic and so very bitter.

"I inherited a great many things from father, but any strength and courage I possess, I got from you." Hawke smiled through the rain and fog that rolled across her vision. "I don't think I ever really appreciated just how strong and brave you are until now." A long shuddering breath burned its way down into her lungs, and her face twisted, trying to force words past the icy hand clamped around her throat.

"Anders!" she called over her shoulder, glancing back only quickly, unwilling to tear her stare from her mother's face. "There must be something … surely."

The mage stepped up beside her and crouched, laying a hand against Leandra's cheek. "I'm sorry. His magic was all that was sustaining her."

Hawke pushed him away. "What good is your magic? What good does any of it do? It kills easily enough … why can't it … ?"

"Sh, darling," Leandra whispered. "I'll be fine. I'm going to see Carver and your father again." A warm smile brightened that pallid face. "I've missed your father so badly these years." Her eyes closed for a long moment, halting Hawke's heart and breath.

"No, Mother, please. Stay with me." She pressed her lips to the chill forehead. "Please don't leave me alone," she cried, her voice the high, desperate bleat of a child lost in the dark. Tears cut tracks through the filth on her face, hot at first but then cooling. The fist around her throat reached down into her chest, jagged claws tearing into her heart.

"You almost died when you were five," Leandra said, her voice so very faint. "Do you remember? Your father's magic brought you back."

Hawke smiled and nodded. "I remember him holding my hand … we were somewhere very strange … and Raggs and Snaggs came to lead us home. They were so bright that they hurt my eyes." She chuckled softly. "It's been a long time since I thought about Raggs and Snaggs."

A soft chuckle answered that. "You and your father sitting by the fire telling stories about them." Leandra's eyes opened halfway. "You'll be fine, my beautiful, brave girl. Take care of Bethany." The light behind that gaze already glimmering with death's touch, darkened. "I love you, Mari. Never forget that. I've always loved you … so very much."

Hawke didn't need to be told her mother had moved on, she felt the body in her arms empty, becoming nothing more than a container void of the beauty that once made it glow with life. Clutching Leandra to her breast, Hawke let out a long, shrill scream … a keen of denial and anger and pain. Inside her chest, the claws tore her heart into shreds then vanished, leaving nothing but emptiness behind.

Nothing.

"Hawke," Sebastian said, his lyrical voice laden with sorrow, "allow me to commend your mother's soul to the Maker. So wonderful a lady will surely dwell at His side."

"No." Hawke rocked gently, a soft humming drifting out of her throat to float through the air. Her mother used to sing her to sleep as a child. Her father always liked to thrill her with wild tales, getting her squealing and diving under the covers ... a completely counterproductive bedtime routine. Then her mother would scold them both gently that they'd wake the twins, and she'd sit on the mattress at Hawke's side and settle the whole house with her voice. Just as it had then, the tune stilled the air, bringing a sense of quiet magic to the fetid undercity. And just as it had then, it helped quiet Hawke's spirit, easing back the pain.

And then it shattered.

"Hawke … Mari," Aveline said, her voice soft and thick with tears, "let one of us carry her."

"No! Get away." Hawke threw the guard captain back, sending her sprawling. "All of you. Take your laws and your guards who stand by watching the world rot and eat itself. Take your Maker and his bride and their useless ignorance of suffering. Take your magic … all of it … and … and throw it all to the Void."

Varric helped Aveline to her feet, then turned to crouch at Hawke's side. "Okay, Hawke." He rested a hand on the back of her neck, the warmth of it the first glimmer of comfort in a very long night. "Come on, let's get her out of here. She's too fine a lady for a place like this."

Hawke nodded and stood, her best friend helping to settle her mother in her arms. Then slowly, and with reverence, she carried the woman who'd once carried her. Tireless and resolute, Leandra's eldest took her from that lonely place of decay and death back to her childhood home.

_Varric swallowed hard and turned to stare into the fire, not wanting the Seeker to see any weakness she might decide to latch her claws into. "You know," he said, his voice cracking a little, "all this talking is thirsty work."_

_Cassandra scoffed, but he could have sworn that when she spoke, her voice came out tight and nasal. He glanced her way, trying to see past the wall of the hand covering her face. Surely those weren't the shine of tears on her cheeks._

_The Seeker cleared her throat and shifted in her chair. "Are you expecting the finest of vintages? Lichen-ale left to age a decade in the chill caverns of Orzammar?"_

_Varric laughed, dry and a little bitter, the way he liked his ale. "I'd settle for the Hanged Man's cheapest at this point." He watched her out of the corner of his eye, surprised when she nodded to the guards at the outer door before focusing on him once more._

" _So, connect the pieces for me. How do we get from the tragedy of Leandra Hawke's murder to mages setting Kirkwall aflame? Templar and mage killing each other in the streets?" She settled into her chair, her eyes on the fire, as if she were listening to him tell one of his tales next to the hearth at a pub._

_He sighed. "We don't. This path leads somewhere very different, Seeker. The mages … the templars … Meredith's madness … all that came much later and despite Hawke's continual attempts to keep the peace." Since she seemed prepared to hunker down for the long haul, he did as well. A glance at the windows showed a black sky, and he wondered if she'd let him sleep. Oh well, the faster he told the story, the more likely he was to get some sleep._

" _I didn't hear from Hawke for almost three weeks. Every time I went by the house, Bodahn turned me away. Fenris came by the Hanged Man the day after, said he tried to talk to her, but she'd thrown him—quite literally—from the house. I made the climb every day but never got past the door. The next time I saw Hawke, she stumbled into the Hanged Man, pale and shaking, scared half to death."_


	5. Moribund Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She ran into a gate and looked up, taking thirty seconds or so to realize that she stood outside the gate to the qunari compound. She scowled and looked around, meeting the equally scowling face of her old friend … Gate Guard. Breaking their glaring duel, she turned a full circle, trying to remember how she got there.

 

_The Seeker stood and stretched, cracking her neck as she stifled a yawn. Varric didn't take offense, knowing her weariness stemmed from the hours of interrogation rather than boredom with his story. She paced a little, stopping at the hearth to stare down into the flames. "You heard nothing for weeks, and then she came into the Hanged Man afraid?" the Seeker repeated after a long pause, her tone perplexed. "Did she explain what happened?"_

_Varric nodded and stretched out, resting his heels on the hearth. "Her outburst when her mother died about the Maker and magic and law not counting for anything, because none of them possessed power over the brutality of life …. That anger took root, burning away what little faith Hawke possessed." He watched the Seeker kick at the edge of the coalbed. "She'd never been one for religion. Hawke believed in people, not gods." He jutted his chin out, a subtle challenge. It felt petty, but he was the kidnapped and interrogated party, he deserved a little petty. "You probably wouldn't know about losing all faith or purpose, would you, Seeker?"_

_Her eyebrows popped up as she sighed and glanced back at him. "You'd be surprised." The next second, a deep frown pulled those eyebrows back down toward her nose and furrowed her brow. "She felt as though she'd failed her entire family, the single goal she'd built her life around, and with Leandra's death, her reason to exist vanished."_

_Varric nodded. Maybe the Seeker did understand after all. "Hawke's a formidable woman and a strong fighter, but above all, she's a protector. The city had failed her, repaying her devotion by brutally stealing her mother. She'd failed Leandra. What did she have left?" He laced his fingers over his stomach and let out a long breath. "When I finally did get into the house, Bodahn said she'd spent the weeks alone in the library, reading. She spoke only when asked questions, ate almost nothing ... fading into a ghost."_

"I resent being driven out of my own home," Hawke hollered over her shoulder even as Bodahn slammed the door behind her. The dwarf emphasized his point by locking it despite the fact he must know she carried a key. She exhaled, the dust-covered breath wheezing from lungs that hadn't taken a full breath in weeks. The following inhale burned a little, forcing a jagged cough.

Muttering at the stubbornness of dwarves, she turned to look out into the street. The pale stone gleamed white, so bright she reached up to shade her eyes. The sun, bright and furious, beat down on her, a searing reminder that, as pale as she was, she might burst into flame if she stayed out too long.

Without heeding the warning, she set out into the city, brazenly bare-headed. Within seconds, the noisy crowds herded her away from the main streets into darker, deserted alleyways. She wandered without paying attention to where she went, other than following vague points of curiosity: a strange noise here, a flash of light there, a ginger tom cat on the prowl. For the most part, her eyes remained fixed firmly inward, seeing nothing but a constant loop of memories. They never stopped. Both good and bad recollections haunted her since she sent Leandra to her rest, both sorts tearing loose pale chunks of flesh and bone..

The sweetness of her childhood sang to her with simplicity and innocent grace. Her father's laughter rang through their small home, steeping their lives in jovial safety. Leandra's gentle scolding and Bethany's singing acted as harmony … sounds cherished and blithe. In the end, it came down to love, and their house overflowed with it.

Bethany … . She smiled, the thought of her younger sibling's beauty pouring through her, all light and song and peace. Once Hawke's little songbird learned to walk, Bethany followed her elder sister everywhere. Their father teased that Bethany proved more faithful even than Hawke's shadow, and he spoke truth. Even on dreary days or at night, when her shadow fled, Mari need only turn around to find her little songbird. Always singing or humming, the beauty of Bethany's voice lit up Hawke's world. If the world proved fair, the songbird would have been able to attend the finest academies in Orlais, learning to use her instrument to its potential. Instead, her magical talent kept her trapped … and when Mari left to join the army … alone.

The night before Mari and Carver left for the army, Bethany begged to come and cursed her parents for not sending her to the circle. At least in the circle, she would have been trained to fight and joined her siblings in battle. The two of them held one another and cried, Hawke rubbing gentle circles on her songbird's back; truly, half of her heart would remain behind. As she walked away from their home the next morning, she winced as if lashed by each of Bethany's cries. At the gate, Mari turned, blew her baby sister a kiss, and promised to come home. At least that promise, she kept.

Her memories of Carver and his robust, boyish play didn't ring sweet or comfortable like those of Bethany. A smile plucked at the corners of her mouth. As a boy he always lay in wait, ready to leap out with a wooden sword or stick, cracking his big sister across the knuckles or shin as he howled like a mad wolf. They'd seen a lot of good times … summer days spent splashing in the river, playing knights and villains in the forest behind their home ... and he loved a good wrestle. At least he did before Bethany's talent manifested and resentment moved in, taking up permanent residence in his heart.

Carver felt overshadowed by both his sisters. Bethany's magic boxed him in and Mari being the older sister … he interpreted everything she did as trying to control him or prove herself better than him. When they went into the army, Mari fit like a dove-tail into a slot. Having trained with daggers since childhood and demonstrating a gift for leadership, command sent her straight into advanced specialist training. Although excellent with a blade, Carver's insistence on bucking against his superiors did not make for a good fit, and his resentment crystallized.

Try as she might, Hawke never managed to convince him how much love and faith he inspired. So brave, but reckless … . She shoved the memory of the ogre and her little brother's death far away.

Death.

From the moment Hawke first lifted her daggers, death moved in, taking over her life. She'd killed so many, their faces just glimpses, death masks running together in a gangrenous blur. But, she only killed to protect her family, her country, her king. As much as she loved her skill, loved the art and the movement of the fight, she killed only with purpose … only to defend. She'd always found it strange that Carver thought her so infallible, because she felt like a failure every time she resorted to her blades.

It had taken someone braver, stronger, maybe even smarter—certainly luckier—to survive Ostagar and bring down the Blight. Her best amounted to running faster than the spawn, killing friends as they turned into ghouls. Arriving home in Lothering became a rout, running from the screaming, sweat-soaked terror of a town in flames, the darkspawn driving her family into the wilds.

To give her mother and songbird a new life in Kirkwall, Mari pushed away the nightmares and the fear that dogged her every heartbeat. She'd faced darkspawn again in the long dark of the deep roads. Surely those weeks of clenched fists, grinding teeth, and hidden tears should have been enough to buy a little comfort and peace.

But no, of course not. No, once more she'd failed them. Just like King Cailan. Just like her squad. Just like Carver.

You sacrificed for them all. That is never failure. You have moved beyond grief into self-pity. It clings to you like an evil spirit, and you must rid yourself of it before you become an abomination of loathing or despair, your every breath spreading poison that will destroy your world.

She ran into a gate and looked up, taking thirty seconds or so to realize that she stood outside the gate to the qunari compound. She scowled and looked around, meeting the equally scowling face of her old friend … Gate Guard. Breaking their glaring duel, she turned a full circle, trying to remember how she got there.

The guard just watched her until she stepped up to look through the gate once more. "Do you have business with the Arishok?" he asked, one heavy brow rising.

Hawke shook her head. "No, I don't." She sighed then turned to face him dead on, her brows pulling down tight and heavy over her eyes. "Does the Qun give you … ." Another sigh whispered out as she shook her head, not even sure how to phrase the question.

He studied her for a long moment, looking for all the world as if he considered how easy her head would be to part from her shoulders. He took a deep breath and held up his hands, clenching them into fists. "The Qun is the strength in my hands." He flexed his massive shoulders. "It places steel in my bones to withstand the burdens I must carry. It is my air and my blood. Without it, I am nothing. An empty vessel."

Hawke rewarded his explanation with a wan smile and nodded. "I understand being an empty vessel, my friend." She turned back to the gate, watching the qunari and viddathari go about their lives.

"You wish purpose? Direction? To fill that emptiness?" He nodded when she didn't answer and pushed the gate open. "Go in basra. Watch. Listen. See if the Qun speaks to you."

Her gut fluttering uneasily, she sidled past him, making sure to stay to the far left where the Arishok wouldn't catch sight of her. Although certain that he'd hear of her presence in under a minute, she wanted to make it clear she intended no distraction or intrusion.

"Hello!" A female elf hurried over to her, a male right behind her, their large, jewel-like eyes bright. "You look weary, come and sit with us. We have water sweetened with honey and mint." The woman slipped her arm through Hawke's elbow, leading her up the stairs to where several elves and a handful of humans sat around low tables, all working.

"Busy hands, light spirit," the male said, holding out a hand. "Come, sit, Serah Hawke. Take your ease."

She stopped, pulling her arm free. Fear or embarrassment … perhaps some combination of both sent the blood rushing to her face. "You know who I am?" The urge to run set a hook in her belly, reeling her toward the gate. She felt naked … exposed … and strangely guilty, as if they'd caught her doing something wrong.

"Of course. For over a year, my wife and I took shelter in one of your houses in Lowtown. It saved our lives." He smiled, settling her discomfort a little. "It was your example that made us decide to convert to the Qun, to live and work for the good of all."

The woman cleared her throat, a gentle interruption, and ushered Hawke over to a spot at the edge of the tent next to the wall. "Please, sit and take your ease." The elf possessed a quiet, sweet motherliness that coaxed Hawke down onto the stone.

Although still feeling like a leaf caught in a dust-demon, Hawke accepted a cup of cool, mint tea and leaned against the sun-warmed stone at her back. As the world slowed its dizzying spin and her pulse quieted in her ears, she began to relax. Despite feeling out of place, she wasn't hurting anyone, wasn't spying or doing anything untoward. The guard invited her in, and the viddatharis' welcome could only be called warm; she didn't need to feel as if her presence committed some sort of violation.

"Do you know how to knit?" the elf asked, snapping Hawke's attention away from her inner chaos. The woman's open, eager expression allowed Hawke to finally take a full breath. She truly was welcome. The elf held out her knitting needles. "Would you like to?"

Hawke shook her head. "No, that sort of thing is my sister's realm. Mine involves a lot of sharp-edged steel and healing potions." She held up her rough, calloused hands. "I'd just keep snagging the yarn."

"The person who enjoys a night of warmth because of the blanket you knit won't care about your rough hands or a few snags in the yarn." The viddathari smiled, warm and understanding, but also firm. "Here, I just started this." She passed over the pair of long, thin needles, half placing them in Hawke's lap. "Let me get another started, and I'll show you how it's done."

Hawke examined the few rows of tight, neat stitches that stretched along the needles. "It doesn't look big enough to keep anyone warm," she muttered. Quick, precise movement drew Hawke's attention to the viddathari's hands as the woman cast stitches onto a new set of needles. Her neat handedness made Hawke look down at her own, thick, rough hands and sigh.

"We knit them in strips and then sew the strips together," the elf replied, her kind smile singing through her words. She held up her own needles. "Watch what I'm doing."

The sun touched the top of the wall before Hawke set down her work and looked up, realizing that almost the entire day had passed while she sat there, wrestling with her project and listening to the viddathari talk. They spoke of the way they'd lived before, how their lives and priorities had changed since they converted. They discussed their new culture's doctrine and recited meditations as they worked.

Despite how awkward and laid bare she felt when she arrived, by the time Hawke forced herself to roll up her half-finished blanket strip, she couldn't remember a day passing so quickly or pleasantly. No one expected anything of her. They didn't ask her talk or even participate. She knew the elf had started her knitting simply to give her something to settle her mind. And it had. The simple, repetitive task soothed her thoughts and her troubled heart. It allowed her to rest for the first time in weeks, and for that, she felt a gratitude too overwhelming to express.

"Thank you," she said simply, taking the elf's offered hand. "I remember you and your husband. Ittial and Tillun, right?"

"We were." Ittial smiled when Hawke hesitated. "Return tomorrow. You have a blanket to finish," she prompted, her tone gentle and understanding.

After thinking about it for a moment, Hawke nodded, realizing that she looked forward to coming back. "I will." Turning on her heel, she jogged from the compound. The guard simply nodded as she passed through the gate, as accepting as the rest.

Hawke smiled a little as she climbed the stairs, truly looking forward to the following dawn.

_Varric stood and wandered out into the main room where the rest of the Seekers sat at long tables or stood in small groups. None of them seemed overly concerned with his presence, ignoring him as he made a beeline to the cask lying on what had once been Hawke's writing desk. As he reached for an ewer, the edge of a wooden chest caught his attention, gleaming dully from under a pile of sacks. Feeling as if he'd just discovered the fabled treasure of the ancients, he cleared away the sacks and pulled it out into the light. It bore plenty of scars, but remained intact. Half holding his breath, he crouched, slipping his lockpicks from his belt._

_Hawke once kept all her spare armour and weapons in that chest. He wondered if she cleaned it out before she heading to meet the ship for Ferelden their last day in Kirkwall. Taking too many seconds to open it, he grumbled. Damn, he was getting rusty. When he opened the lid, he froze, staring in at nearly a decade of his best friend's life. Heart aching, he reached in, running a fingertip along the skeletal fingers that decorated Jarvia's Shank. She'd left her cleavers behind._

" _What are you looking at?" the Seeker asked, her footsteps just registering, a rustle of leaves across the tile floor._

" _Jarvia's Shank and Beraht's Revenge," he answered, a cold winter wind rattling branches that three years of running had stripped bare. "Two of the finest blades ever made by dwarven kind." He lifted one from the crate and thumbed the edge. "Feel it. Could still cut a hair lengthwise."_

_The Seeker took the blade from his hands, holding it with a sort of uncomfortable reverence that raised his eyebrow. She tested the edge as he'd suggested. "Hawke used these?"_

_He nodded. "They were an inheritance. For five years I never saw her without them on her back. I knew she stopped using them after the qunari attacked the city, but I had no idea she'd left them behind." Of course, he knew why she'd abandoned them. As much as they'd been a part of her for years, that part of her died._

_Varric looked up at his captor. "Can I take them?" Hawke probably wouldn't look at them again, but Malcolm might want them some day, and Bethany would definitely want to keep them._

" _So what brought you in here?" she asked. "Just the urge to snoop through your old friend's things?"_

_He coughed a little and shook his head. "Ale, actually. Maybe some of that venison pie from lunch." Pushing himself up, he lifted the cleaver from her hands. "You didn't answer my question. When I leave, can I take my friend's belongings?"_

" _I thought you don't know where she is." The challenge bit deep, the Seeker cocking her head as her voice lashed him with judgement. And people thought slaver whips were cruel._

_He placed the weapon in the chest and relocked it. "I don't, but they're still my best friend's belongings, and I wouldn't see them being passed around in some barracks." His voice rose to match hers, challenge for challenge. She visibly bristled at his insinuation that her people might be thieves, but he didn't care. Those cleavers represented the broken parts of the only sister he'd ever known. Keeping some things safe was worth risking offense or worse._

_In the end, the Seeker backed down and nodded. "You can take the chest when you go. Now, get your ale and your pie. We're losing the daylight."_

_Choking down the urge to ask why it mattered, Varric stood and reached for one of the large, familiar ewers. When the chantry took over someone's house, they didn't concern themselves with respecting the owner's belongings. He chuffed. Not that Hawke would care._

_After preparing his snack, he returned to the library and his chair by the fire. Things could have been worse, he supposed. Seeker Pentaghast could have dragged him to a dank cell in some rat-infested dungeon. He felt sure the Chantry maintained a fair few of those._

_The Seeker pulled a small table over in front of her chair, and set down a plate of her own. She sat, then smoothed a napkin across her lap. "So, Hawke spent her grief lurking in the back of the qunari compound knitting blankets?" She cocked an eyebrow at him and shook her head. "I don't believe you."_

" _Believe what you like, Seeker. Of course, we're talking about Hawke. As content as she was to sit and knit, the fifth day, when she arrived just after dawn and saw the qunari soldiers drilling, the exercise caught her interest."_

The sun hadn't risen high enough to burn off the night's chill when Hawke arrived at the compound on the fifth day, eager to get to work. She'd just about finished her blanket, and as odd as it felt to be proud of a blanket, holding something that had been nothing but rolls of wool days before … knowing that it would keep someone warm at night … . Heat burned up her neck. Oh, let the Void take her arrogant, warrior pride. She was damned proud of that stupid blanket.

Through the gate, she saw the soldiers at their drills, some paired with like weapons—dual wielder with dual wielder, spear with spear—others paired with their opposite. She edged around them, careful not to interfere, and climbed the stairs to help Tillun, who set out water and food for after the drills finished.

"I've never seen drills like this," she whispered, not that her usual voice could have been heard over the din of steel against steel. "It looks more like … " She winced a little as she said it. "... dancing than fighting."

The viddathari nodded. "That's what they call it: the dance."

Hawke shaded her eyes against the early sun as she watched the pairs of qunari. They moved back and forth across the wide courtyard, taunting each other in the way that sword brothers do, regardless of race. But rather than fighting to land a strike, they appeared to be countering one another, their forms as close to identical as she'd ever seen.

She supposed as someone used to sword practice being a trade off—one person attacking while the other defends, then switching places—she should consider the qunari version just another example of how all individuality had been ground out of them. Except that she knew better. They were not all the same, not all mindless shells without passions and individual personalities. And she found their exercises beautiful, seeing within those forms a great deal of respect and camaraderie. If one misstepped or came up short, his partner adjusted to compensate so that the exercise continued, flowing like water over rocks … not peaceful, but rough and churning … all power and movement and constant change.

Her arms ached to try it, to hear the music of her cleavers singing against a set of dual short swords. Descending the stairs, she got closer, watching the forms, head cocked off to the side, her arms following the dual wielders' movements, if subtly. Oh, it was lovely, their strength impressive as it flowed with fluid speed. She moved a little closer, and crouched, the fingertips of one hand pressed to the edge of the stair for balance.

All too soon, the pairings broke apart, slapping backs and behaving just like men. She grinned and pushed to her feet. Odd how that still surprised her after everything she had witnessed fighting the Tal Vashoth and during her days in the compound. As strange as everyone believed them, they were still people, still men.

An Ashaad approached her, his expression guarded. "You wish to test your blades in the dance?" he asked, looking over her shoulder.

"I … ahhh … ." Hawke followed his gaze to find the Arishok watching them. He didn't meet her eyes, but nodded to Ashaad. She bit down on the inside of her lip, turning back to find the warrior waiting for her reply. A quick smile answered before she could nod. "Yes, please."

He nodded at her breastplate and pauldrons. "You will not need them." With that, he turned and walked out into the open space. Holding his swords low, he rolled his wrists, then elbows and shoulders, muscle and sinew rippling.

As Hawke stripped off her armour and set it aside, she resisted the urge to look up at the Arishok. It wasn't as if a quick glance would give her any insight into whether or not the entire situation amounted to an elaborate way to slice her into a hundred pieces. Stripped down to her jerkin and blouse, she jogged down the last couple of stairs. Once on flat ground, she shrugged her cleavers into her hands and walked over to face her partner.

"You watched and learned the forms?" he asked. When she nodded, he grunted in approval. "I will begin slowly. Do not seek to get past my weapons, but meet them. Before one learns to fight, they must learn the steps of the dance." He lifted his swords, taking a grounded stance.

Hawke mirrored him, her old friends sitting unsettled in her hands. Still, Ashaad started slowly, as he'd promised, and she kept up with him without too much effort. Her only real stumbling block proved to be her training, the ingrained pathways in her head and her muscles that insisted she work against him rather than with him. However, as with the knitting, the simple, repetitive movements pulled her out of her thoughts, allowing her to focus on something further away than the end of her nose.

He pushed toward her, not speeding up, just forcing her up onto the balls of her feet, her balance light and low as she backed away. She stumbled a bit, not paying close enough attention to his body language to know when he intended to stop … and then again when he backed away, drawing her after him. However, the next time, she kept her focus where it belonged and they flowed much more smoothly through the transitions.

Still, her weapons hung heavy in her hands, feeling reluctant and slow. No matter how hard she concentrated on the movements, she remained just slightly behind him. When he sped up, she felt as though she scrambled her way through, nearly striking him several times. Frustrated and sweating through her blouse, she let out a relieved sigh when he called a halt.

"You possess skill," Ashaad said, sheathing his swords. He approached her and shook his head. "The music plays within you, but you keep your blades … ." He mimed holding something away from his body as he looked for the word. "... apart from you." He thumped her shoulder hard enough to stagger her. "They are not apart. They do not obey commands. They beat with your heart. One thing."

Hawke nodded, understanding. Back in Lothering, the Sten locked up for murdering a local family spoke of his blade, Asala, as his soul. She glanced back at the cleavers hanging between her shoulder blades, not sure she could ever consider them so vital a part of her. Bowing her head a little, she said, "Thank you for this lesson."

"Serah Hawke."

Hawke turned toward the deep, commanding voice as it rumbled down on her from above. When the Arishok gestured for her to approach the stairs to his dais, she did so with a wary sort of confidence. What had he thought of her less than competent performance? She could only guess.

That rankled. She respected the Arishok's power, his command, and his sheer brute strength, even fearing them a little. She admired the rigid honour that held him in its grasp … his dedication to the Qun and his duty. She might not like that it mattered to her, but making a fool of herself in front of him burned. She wanted to earn his respect in return.

She bowed her head a little, not in deference, but acknowledging that respect with which she regarded him. "Arishok."

"You come and go from this compound far more than your business with me demands." He leaned forward in his usual pose, massive forearms on his knees, watching her, his expression inscrutable. "Why?"

"I'm educating myself." She shrugged, her neck turtling into her shoulders. "I wished to know more about the Qun. I didn't want to complicate your days with further annoyance or distraction, so have been seeking my answers elsewhere."

He scowled down at her for longer than she was comfortable with, but she returned his gaze without allowing herself to fidget. Nodding toward her cleavers, he asked, "How long has it been since you held them?"

The question surprised her. Her performance must have been poor enough to reveal her long vacation. "Three weeks."

"The reason?" That stare bored a hole straight through her forehead and into her brain, a drill seeking truth.

Hawke stared at him for long seconds. What business was it of his why she did or didn't use her cleavers? Maybe she just wanted to take a rest from hacking people into ribbons. She opened her mouth, resentment and fear prompting her to say something scathing.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the indignation faded and her shoulders dropped. His demand for truth deserved no less than honesty. "I failed them," she said simply. The truth burned so fiercely for a moment that she couldn't breathe.

He nodded. No reply, no questions, just a nod that said he understood. She found his comprehension odd, considering she wasn't sure she even knew what she meant. Pushing off his knees, the Arishok stood and took three steps toward the area to his right, the mysterious space he appeared from and disappeared to.

Just before stepping out of sight, his massive head turned back. "Follow."


	6. The Folded Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke took a deep breath to still the butterflies in her stomach. When she wandered to the compound five days earlier, she probably hadn't thought things through as well as she should have. She certainly hadn't considered that she would end up sitting in the Arishok's quarters, checking overhead to be sure his massive axe didn't hover there, ready to fall.

 

Hawke baulked. Follow him? Where? Into his Arishok lair? That felt way too much like poking the bear.

After hesitating for another second, she followed. The single word hadn't been a request but a command. Climbing the stairs, she felt the curious stares of the other qunari, each wondering no doubt whether the Arishok wished to part her head from her shoulders somewhere less public. Turning the corner, she passed beneath a curtain made of canvas into a dimly lit nook in the wall. On the far side, another curtain covered a narrow window. The Arishok pulled the drape back, allowing light to spill in. Illumination revealed a simple cot, table, and bench, all large enough to accommodate the Arishok's massive frame.

He barked a single word in Qunlat. A moment later, one of his men brought in a chair, set it behind her and gracelessly shoved her into it.

Hawke took a deep breath to still the butterflies in her stomach. When she wandered to the compound five days earlier, she probably hadn't thought things through as well as she should have. She certainly hadn't considered that she would end up sitting in the Arishok's quarters, checking overhead to be sure his massive axe didn't hover there, ready to fall. She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to charm the ball of snakes squirming in her gut.

"What fuels your curiosity about the Qun?" the Arishok asked, looking out over the water. "Is it reconnaissance? Seeking greater knowledge of the enemy?"

She shook her head, surprised yet again by the question. "No. I don't consider the qunari my enemy."

"Are we curiosities to you?" He bristled, massive shoulders setting into a wall of stone every bit as solid and formidable as the ones surrounding them. "Have you come to stare as one would at caged beasts in a Tevinter menagerie?"

"No!" Her control slipped for a moment, allowing her disgust at the idea to escape. She sighed and shifted in her chair, certain that a half-dozen nails poked out of the seat. How could she make him understand something she still hadn't figured out?

Maybe she just needed to start at the beginning. "When I lived in Ferelden, a Sten killed a local family. The chantry locked him in a cage on the edge of town. I still don't know why I went over to talk to him. Maybe it was the way he just stood there, head bowed, reciting what I assumed was a prayer. I don't know. Whatever, the reason, I approached him and asked why he'd killed that family … even the children."

She looked down at the table, a scowl pinching her brow and around her eyes. Regardless of the violence and brutality of his crime, she never felt any fear around the prisoner. Shaking her head, she continued, "His answer confused me as much as it intrigued me, but what really struck me about him was his absolute acceptance of his fate. He didn't deny what he'd done, didn't deny that it was unforgivable. He truly regretted what he'd done in a fit of panic, and accepted his death as a consequence of his lapse of control."

Feeling the Arishok's stare, more intense than the sun's rays, she looked up to meet it. "As loathe as I am to admit it, honour and accountability like that is rare among my people. We do horrible things to each other and either rationalize our actions or deny them."

The Arishok turned to look at her, the weight behind his gaze palpable, a huge hand pressing her into her chair … not exactly comfortable, but not unsettling either. It felt … . She met that gaze, eyes narrowing. It felt almost like a promise. Of what, she had no idea, but a promise nonetheless. Then the pressure—the sudden feeling of sitting naked, her entire being laid bare—forced her to take refuge behind words.

"Anyway, I envied him that peace." She crossed an ankle over her knee, throwing up a wall, both hands resting on her calf. "We search for it our whole lives. Some find it in the Chantry, but I never have." She heard herself babbling, knew the words were starting to reach the point of inanity, and yet they just kept going. "Too many questions, I suppose. We live in an imperfect world. Some are content to say that it is the Maker's will, but I would see it made less imperfect, His will or not." That said, she managed to clamp her teeth shut, forcing herself to take a breath and just stew in the feeling of terrifying vulnerability. How did he pull up every secret thing she kept hidden and make her feel as though she wore them draped around her neck?

He finally spoke, relieving some of the crushing pressure. "When first you came to my attention, I assumed that you were motivated by greed as are the rest of the bas who rot in this cesspool." He looked back over the water. "Yet, my men report to me that you have used your wealth to purchase several houses in the impoverished areas of the city and turned them into shelter for your poorest people."

Hawke nodded. "Anyone who is willing to contribute to the whole is welcome to stay for as long as they wish. It's working well so far."

"And those who follow you, my men report that you share all things equally amongst them, and they also contribute to caring for the poor." His spine straightened slightly, becoming rigid as if he suspected her of manipulating him or the truth in some fashion.

Thinking about Varric and the others … how they'd just adopted her project, contributing what they could … tugged a reluctant smile onto her lips. Anders went by the houses every week to provide healing services, and Varric continually both amazed and dismayed her by showing up with crates of supplies that he 'got at a bargain rate'. She suspected those bargains to be gambling ones.

Finally, in answer to the Arishok's words, she said, "They take the same risks I do, they deserve the same rewards."

He spun to face her, suddenly radiating rage, his entire body drawn and tight, a thunderhead about to unleash lightning and hail. "Do you think me a fool?"

Dropping her foot to the floor, Hawke straightened a little. As the pressure dropped before the storm, she met his fury with steady, open eye contact. "Not at all, Arishok. Quite the opposite."

The storm abated, leaving clear, cooler air in its wake. His shoulders softened ever so slightly even as he tilted his chin up, challenging her. "You wish to learn of the Qun, but not to become viddathari?"

The question took Hawke aback, forcing a thoughtful scowl back onto her face. Her curiosity was years old, but was she ready to seriously learn what it meant to be of the Qun? Becoming viddathari … no, she just couldn't reconcile herself with so much of qunari culture, but learning … actually getting a chance to understand, and maybe find a way to bridge the gap between the compound and the rest of the city … ? Certainty set like plaster, and she gave him a sharp nod. She did. Whatever he dished up, she could take.

He tilted his head back, looking down his broad nose at her. "Very well. I will educate you myself." The way he spoke, she was fairly sure he was only doing so to ascertain whether she operated from pure intentions or hatched some bas trick.

Hawke didn't know whether to be honoured, excited, or terrified. She decided on all three, but voiced only the first. "I'm honoured, Arishok. Thank you."

"Leave now, return at dawn tomorrow." He turned away from her to look back at the sea, and for a moment, she hesitated, seeing not the Arishok of the qunari antaam, but a man bound by duty who missed his home.

She stood and gave him another slight bow of her head. "Good day, Arishok, and thank you." Ducking out under the curtain, she found every eye in the place studiously focused the other way. Rather than diffusing her discomfort, it intensified it, and as she passed, Hawke felt the eyes of the qunari turn toward her back like daggers. At the gate, she looked back, lifting a hand to Tillun and Ittial before passing through.

She hurried up the stairs, not taking a full breath until she was safely inside the door of the Hanged Man. At the base of the stairs up to Varric's room, she hesitated, wondering if the weeks of silence had strained her relationship with her best friend. She clenched her fists and her teeth and headed up. Staying away would mend nothing.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Hawke," the dwarf said when she stepped into his doorway.

She nodded, but didn't let him just skim over her absence. "Am I still welcome?" As she watched him, slouched there in his innocuous seat of power, she realized that she'd missed him. Over the past few years, he'd become the brother she didn't need to worry about, the steady comfort and support at her back. Maker, she could be such a selfish idiot.

He shrugged, a half-smile on his lips. "I think that's my question after weeks of being turned away at your door, don't you?" His steady, amber stare settled the rolling in her belly despite his words.

She sighed and nodded, the skin between her brows puckering in a slight frown. "I just needed to mourn, Varric. I needed time to figure some things out."

"Bullshit." He stood and walked over to stand nose to chest with her. "You needed to beat the shit out of yourself, and you knew I'd never allow it." When she just stared at him rather than answering, he leaned back on one hip, crossed his arms, and lifted one eyebrow in challenge. "You going to try to lie to me?" His chuckle came out bitter. "I thought you knew better than that."

"No, not going to lie. I can't lie because I don't know what's going on inside me right now." She backed up a step, ready to turn and leave … and not because he'd turn her away, but because he never would. In the end, she'd let him down too … probably get him killed.

"Again, I've got to say it. Bullshit." Shaking his head, he turned away and returned to his chair. "Come in and sit. You've got a hero complex bigger than any of the crap I tell in my stories, but the truth is, Hawke … you can't save everyone. Sometimes, the bad guys get there first, and we have no choice but to clean up after them." He sat, then looked past her. "Norah! Get me and my friend here an ale, and put them on her tab."

Hawke spun to face the waitress. "Just apple juice for me, thanks, Norah." Giving in, she followed Varric into his room and flopped into a chair. "I know I can't save them all. I'm not that arrogant. But Mother … I'd stopped investigating, Varric. I just let the murders of those women go."

"So we invaded Gascard DuPuis's house and killed him because we had nothing better to do that night?" Varric scoffed, then waved her response away. "Look kid, I get it. Leandra was a great lady, you loved her, and she didn't deserve to die the way she did. You did more than anyone in this city to catch that bastard. You nearly killed yourself to get there in time. So … fine, torture yourself if it helps, but just don't call it anything else." When Norah set their drinks down, he took a long swallow, then looked over at her. "So, what brought you here looking so spooked?"

A weak smile greeted the subject change, and Hawke reached out to pick up her juice. "Just a far more intimate run in with the Arishok than I was expecting to have today. They really need to recruit that man into the Grey Wardens, because he could just scowl the archdemon to death." She sighed and straightened in her chair. "Damn … I forgot about my knitting."

Varric chuckled and gave his head a hard shake. "That all made no sense. Start from beginning. What about knitting?"

" _The Arishok agreed to teach Hawke himself?" The Seeker stretched then leaned forward, her elbows braced against the arms of her chair, her eyes remaining focused on the fire._

_Varric stood, carrying his dishes over to the sideboard. He rinsed his ale tankard out, throwing the water into the corner of the fire. "He did. At the time, Hawke thought it was to make sure she didn't corrupt the viddathari with her heretical bas ideas, but I think that somehow, he had already begun to see some greater purpose for my friend. Maybe he thought by keeping her close, he could figure out what it was."_

_Varric poured himself a tankard of water and dropped some dried mint into it. Hawke had hooked him on it along with warm milk and honeycomb. Terrible influence. Once he'd been a simple dwarf, drinking simple dwarven things. How was a self-respecting dwarf supposed to hold his head up as he sprinkled mint into his water?_

_He glanced at the Seeker, but she didn't seem to notice, so he just returned to his chair. "Hawke started going to the qunari compound every morning. I didn't find out until she'd been studying for a fortnight. When I asked her what she was doing, all she'd tell me was that she was trying to find a path through a dark forest." His lips twisted a little into the bastard child of a smile and a sneer. "When I asked her if she meant relations between the qunari and the city or a more personal forest, she just said, 'Yes.'_

Hawke let out a long, mostly silent sigh and shifted, trying to ease her aching backside where the stone dug into every boney part of her. Days of sitting on stone reading endless scrolls had her seriously rethinking her desire to know the Qun any better than she already did. The subject matter held her interest, but she didn't think she'd spent so many hours without moving more than her fingers since she learned to walk. She glanced over her shoulder to watch the soldiers sparring until a harshly cleared throat dragged her back to her struggle through the roughly translated text, reading:

_Existence is a choice._

_There is no chaos in the world, only complexity._

_Knowledge of the complex is wisdom._

_From wisdom of the world comes wisdom of the self._

_Mastery of the self is mastery of the world._

_Loss of the self is the source of suffering._

_Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it._

_It is in our own power to create the world or destroy it._

(Taken directly from the Dragon Age 2 codex entry: The Qun. It is an excerpt from Canto 1.)

Hawke finished and looked up. It sounded brilliant in theory. Was she truly choosing to suffer? Was there a way to turn her back on it? A way to just feel everything the way she used to before the cold fog blew in to smother everything? And … anyway, how did any of the Ashkaari's eye opening wisdom have anything to do with the qunari being slaves within their culture?

Where in all his mastery of the self did Saarebas enter in? They never got a chance to master themselves. At least in the circles the Harrowing gave mages a chance to prove that they were strong enough to resist the demons. Not that it made much difference to their freedom or the level of trust placed in them, but were Saarebas ever given that chance?

She closed her eyes, taking long, deep breaths to keep her anger in check. As much as she might wish it to, throwing a tantrum in the middle of her lesson wouldn't change qunari culture. That would take a great many people far wiser and more powerful than her.

"Suffering grows out of refusal. Refusal of purpose, refusal of understanding … " The Arishok paused, drawing her attention away from the scroll. "... refusal to recognize our limitations." He said the last with enough emphasis that she wondered yet again if he could read minds. "Fulfillment and peace grow out of acceptance. Asit tal-eb." Those silver, impossibly fathomless eyes held hers for long seconds. "Asit tal-eb." He nodded toward her scroll. "Continue with Canto 4."

"As you wish, Arishok." Hawke looked down at the scroll, her thoughts still on what the Arishok had said about a refusal to accept one's limitations causing suffering. Varric had said the very same thing, albeit more colourfully, just days before. She understood asit tal-eb, but what was the point of her existence then? What was her purpose if not to protect those who needed her protection? If everything just happened, and it was all according to some plan … why did any of them exist? Why fight? Didn't it just make the bandits and murderers and invaders all part of the great fate?

"Serah Hawke."

She nodded at the gruff admonition—he really could read minds—and focused on the words.

" _When the Ashkaari looked upon the destruction wrought by locusts,_

_He saw at last the order in the world._

_A plague must cause suffering for as long as it endures,_

_Earthquakes must shatter the land._

_They are bound by their being._

_Asit tal-eb. It is to be._

_For the world and the self are one._

_Existence is a choice._

_A self of suffering, brings only suffering to the world._

_It is a choice, and we can refuse it."_

(Taken directly from the Dragon Age 2 codex entry: The Qunari: Asit tal-eb. It is an excerpt from Canto 4.)

When she read through it twice, the first time not quite registering through her warring thoughts, she looked up to find him still watching her.

"Asit tal-eb does not negate struggle, it says that it is an illusion," the Arishok said, sending a chill down her spine. "Struggle is the tide of life. It is not suffering, nor is there ever victory over it." He straightened and looked over the troops scattered on the stairs as if perhaps driving home the point for them as well. "Fighting the tide wears the individual down. When the individual throws himself into the tide, he accepts that some waves will carry him over the rocks and some will smash him against them."

"And purpose? Where does that fit into this? If I have a purpose and all I meet within that role is failure … ." She clamped her lips shut on the rest of that sentence.

"The tide is your purpose … both the rocks and clear seas. You choose to accept that each defeat roots you more solidly in your purpose … " His eyes narrowed, that deadly, deep drill boring into her once more. "... that each teaches a lesson to build wisdom rather than negating that purpose or your worth." His deep, steady voice reached down inside her, plucking all the strings that she had fought so hard to keep silent.

Hawke stared up at him, her thoughts flying around too quickly to catch, like trying to net barn swallows. It all made such beautiful sense. So why did it all come out so twisted and ugly? "And what if someone is on the wrong path, trying to fill the wrong purpose?"

She had to credit his patience. Days of endless questions, constant skepticism, arguing, and consternation, and he let it all just wash over him, never showing a moment of temper or impatience.

"If you give yourself to the tide, you are fulfilling your purpose. Role, rank, occupation … all are placed where they are needed."

"Easily said as the Arishok." She winced even as the words came out, her gut turning to gelid sludge as she spotted the massive wall of rock dead ahead. Another tally mark under the Hawke is a complete moron column.

The Arishok didn't even twitch an eyelid. "A Sten is no more or less than I," he said, gesturing to the Sten. "Is your hand more or less than your foot? We serve in different roles, limbs upon the same body."

Heartened by his lack of anger and her head remaining attached to her neck, Hawke nodded and asked, "And they never wish to fill a different role? To find a new purpose?"

The Arishok's expression became almost kind, as if educating a slightly simple, pitiable child. "If my thumb wishes to become my middle finger, should I exchange them? Will my hand still perform as intended? Each finger fulfils its role; the hand functions."

Hawke choked down her rebuttal. People just weren't fingers. Pressing her lips thin, she fought to keep her mouth closed as her brain spat up that the Tal Vashoth must all have wanted to be toes.

Still, despite all her stubborn, 'we need freedom' leanings, she couldn't deny the appeal of such a simple governing philosophy. To walk into every situation with the rules painted out so clearly … to not have to weigh everything thirteen ways while being pulled in three directions … would prove very … restful. Her entire life had devolved into situational chaos. Even her friends yanked and tore at her, each demanding that she take a direction opposite at least two others. Well, except Varric, bless him.

The Arishok, using his telepathic powers, nodded toward her spot at the gap in the wall. "Go to your meditation."

Hawke rose and bowed her head. "As you command, Arishok." Try as she might, she couldn't hold in a slight sigh as she rolled up the scrolls and placed them back in the chest. She hated meditating. The last thing her mind needed was too much quiet time. In theory, she knew that she needed to work through everything that happened, but sitting still to do so felt like going mad.

She knelt in her spot in the gap, looking out over the water as she settled onto the stone. A small pebble lodged itself under her greaves. Leaning down, she plucked it out and tossed it over the edge. Settling in again, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing. Her back began to itch in a spot where she had no hope of reaching it. She wriggled a little, trying to rub the back plate of her armour against it. No good.

_Breathe, Mari. Just breathe. In … one … out. Shok ebasit hissra._ _In … two … out. I'm hungry. I should have listened to Bodahn and eaten breakfast this morning. Focus, dammit. Right. In … one … out. In … two … out. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit._   _In … three … out. I wonder if Sandal … oh by Andraste's holy knickers!_

"Serah Hawke, do you find sitting still such a difficult task?"

Her shoulders slumped at the thick leading edge that sliced through the words. She glanced over her shoulder. "Apologies, Arishok."

"Apology is worthless. The deed is done. Do better." Fairly sure she heard some mocking in his tone, and a few chuckles from the ranks, it took every ounce of control she could muster to stay facing out at the water, eyes closed. She hated being a joke to them … the pathetic bas with delusions of learning the meaning behind the Qun. And, at the same time, the bas who refused to show their beliefs proper respect.

"As you command, Arishok." Taking a deep breath, she managed to get all the way through her lines twice before the itch returned. She tried to ignore it, but as she breathed and the lines of her meditation repeated … the itch grew until it felt like a dagger slowly stabbing her right through the spine.

Discomfort became frustration, and the frustration opened up all the wounds, the words disappearing from her head, replaced by visions of her mother, fish-scale eyes staring from her pallid face, the terrible wounds where the body had been cobbled together. A scream began to build, digging claws into every inch of her, growing inside her like a giant, soul-eating parasite. Run! Her heart pounded like fists against a door, a prisoner desperate to get out. She had to get up and run … and just keep running. She'd been mad to think that—

You cannot run. Has everyone in your life sacrificed all they have just for you to flee when you are most needed? You owe respect to their sacrifice and duty to their memories.

Movement from behind her broke through her panic. She sucked in a shaky breath, trembling so hard against the stone that her greaves actually played a metallic sort of music. A massive presence appeared beside her, the Arishok giving off an energy that announced his presence without needing to be seen or heard.

"Very well, Serah Hawke," he said, any trace of amusement gone. "Follow."

Practically sobbing with gratitude, she scrambled up off the ground, hurrying down the stairs in his wake.

"Many young soldiers find kneeling meditation difficult," he said, pulling his sword and axe off his back.

Hawke swallowed, her heart still flailing against her ribs, her breath still high and shallow as she tried not to flinch away. She tried to take a deep breath, but her armour caged her, pressing in like a vice.

Jutting his chin to tell her to back away, he took the first position of the exercise she performed every morning with Ashaad. Slowly, with a grace that snatched the rest of her breath right out of her lungs, he swung his blades. The combination of the fluidity of his movement and the sheer strength it took to hold those massive weapons, controlling them through each form as if they weighed nothing, calmed her heart and allowed her to take a full breath. Maker's breath, but he was magnificent.

He glanced over, shaking his head a little when he saw her gawking, open-mouthed. "You know the forms. Do not pull the movement short where your weapons would touch your partner's, follow through into the next." His blades swept through the air, and she really understood for the first time why they called it a dance.

Shrugging Revenge and the Shank into her hands, she took the first position. When he came around to it again, she began, following his movements as closely as she could. They slipped from form to form, blades singing through the air, his deep and earthy, hers light … almost tremulous, a sparrow taking flight next to a dragon. And as she danced, the simple freedom of her body doing what it had been created to do began to chip away at her face, moulding the long lines of sorrow into something that almost resembled a smile.

_Varric finished the tankard of water and glanced toward the outer room. The Seekers began filing out, one shift heading out to patrol Kirkwall's streets as the previous returned. Not that the city couldn't use it. The new guard captain didn't run nearly as tight a ship as Aveline. Of course, no one ever would. Aveline was a force of nature … rock, really, with all of her rigid ideas and codes, but nature nonetheless._

" _Did it help?" the Seeker asked. She stood as well but just to stretch and move around a little. After a second, she nodded toward the entrance. "Come, let's stretch our legs. We've been too long sitting in this dreary room."_

" _Not worried I'm going to run off?" he asked, standing. He stretched as well, then followed her out the door, depositing the tankard on a table as he passed._

" _With your precious Bianca and Hawke's belongings still here?" She chuckled and shook her head. "Not at all."_

_Despite it being the middle of the afternoon, the streets were all but deserted as Varric stepped out into the warm sun. He turned his face toward the heat and let out a long sigh. Much better._

" _So, did it help? Learning about the Qun … taking part in their culture?" the Seeker asked again. She walked a few paces, then paused to wait for him._

" _Hawke became a different person after that day," Varric replied. "Not a little more quiet or more apt to smile … an entirely different person." He shrugged, but even having spent years with the new Hawke, it still made him uneasy._

" _Different how?" She let out a short, sharp huff of air that made Varric think she suspected the qunari heretics of indoctrinating Kirkwall's champion. He didn't blame her, the thought had occurred to him more than once as well. "And how did her companions react to the changes in her?"_

_Varric ignored the first question, mostly because he had no idea how to answer it, and focused on the second. "Each of them reacted according to their own crap, naturally." He cleared his throat. "Aveline said it was about time that Hawke grew up and started taking things more seriously. Anders worried that her anger at the necromancer who killed her mother was turning her against mages. Isabela just fussed that Hawke had become a stick in the mud." He took a couple of deep breaths. Ah, that Kirkwall air. He'd missed it. Ferelden really did smell like wet dog._

" _And you?" The Seeker glanced over at him, her face almost appearing interested … again, and not just interrogator seeking the truth interested, either._

_He met her stare. "I looked into my best friend's eyes the day she laid her mother to rest, and I knew that she had died right alongside Leandra in that forsaken pit." Tripping slightly over a missing paving stone, he looked back, watching where he was going. Someone needed to fix the streets._

_The Seeker waited only a second before pressing. "And?"_

" _And I just hoped that whatever the Arishok told her … whatever weapon practice and doctrine he gave her … that somehow, it helped her find her way back home."_


	7. Dancing with Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke stumbled back, her arm pressed tight against the gash in her side, doubled over, but trying to keep her other cleaver between her and Sten.
> 
> "Hold." The Arishok stepped between them. Sten shouldered his sword immediately. The qunari leader looked down at Hawke and shook his head, his face giving away nothing.

_Varric returned to the house feeling a lot more grateful to be back inside the weathered and broken mansion than he should. He loved Kirkwall despite constantly complaining about it. He had a list of things he'd change about it, but in the end, sitting in his room at the Hanged Man, telling a story … an ale in one hand, a hand of cards in the other … it didn't get much better than that. Although he had to admit that The Pearl came damned close._

_Watching the qunari and then the mages and templars tear Kirkwall apart cut far deeper than he ever admitted to anyone. Hawke knew, of course, but she always just saw those things, particularly after she started training with the Arishok._

_Walking through the city, seeing how much of it still remained in ruins while most people ignored the destruction, just trying to get back to business as usual, depressed him. The hole in the city left from the chantry's destruction remained untouched as if trying to clean it up and rebuild would somehow taint whomever tried._

_By his own admonition, he preferred to keep things light … not spend too much time dwelling on emotion and tragedy. Hawke always called bullshit on that when he tried to convince her. In the end, she might not be as wrong as he claimed, because returning to the fireplace where he'd spent so many pleasant nights proved far less emotionally taxing than watching Kirkwall drown in its misfortunes. Of course, as the Seeker kept pushing, that would change._

_The Seeker. She banked the fire, driving some of the chill dampness from the room then puttered around, tidying and tending to her militant flock. Varric could see that the walk through Hightown had shaken her, although he felt sure that some of her discomfort had to do with him shooting all of her preconceived ideas out of the sky._

_When she appeared to run out of things to keep herself busy, the Seeker poured two tankards of water, adding mint to both. After passing him one, she sat back down. "Where were we?"_

_Varric chuckled. As if she didn't remember. Very well, he could play along. "The Arishok decided Hawke might better meditate with her cleavers in her hands, and he was right. She latched onto it as if her sanity depended on it, and she excelled, eventually being paired in the mornings with two qunari. I can only imagine the Arishok glowered on, the proud mentor who, of course, could never actually show pride."_

_Varric paced around the room a little, ending up standing by the fire, staring into the flames. "Sometimes she could barely walk the next day. I tried to talk to her, tell her that suicide by qunari wouldn't make anything better. It wouldn't bring Leandra or Carver back. Hell, it wouldn't even convince the broody elf to change his mind."_

_He glanced back at the Seeker. "It didn't do any good. She knew her mind and heart too well. Well, not to mention that trying to get her to let go of anything is harder than wrestling a steak from a mabari. If she felt called to end up beaten to death or sliced open during martial practice … all I could do was make sure that Bodahn and Orana had what they needed to patch her up." He ducked his head to the side a little. "Well, and that an ewer of decent fruit juice sat ready when she fell into a chair at the Hanged Man."_

Hawke stumbled back, her arm pressed tight against the gash in her side, doubled over, but trying to keep her other cleaver between her and Sten.

"Hold." The Arishok stepped between them. Sten shouldered his sword immediately. The qunari leader looked down at Hawke and shook his head, his face giving away nothing. For a moment, as she hobbled backwards, giving herself room to respond if necessary, she thought he might have stopped the sparring match simply to dispatch her himself.

"You are dead." The three words carried no emotion, no disappointment or anger. The Arishok simply stated the fact.

Even though the wound itself felt numb, the blood flowing over her hip let Hawke know that she'd taken a serious wound, and she pressed her arm over it, applying as much pressure as she could manage. She nodded between gasps, every movement feeling as though it drove the Sten's sword into her lungs. "Yes."

The errant thought that her guts might actually be trying to squeeze out the long slice, whispered through her mind. Would she know before they splattered on the ground? She stumbled, and nearly went down on one knee, but caught herself. Panic and … worse, embarrassment burned like coals in her rent belly. Damn it all! She couldn't go down. If she died, she'd hit the ground only after she stopped breathing. She looked up, latching a desperate stare on the Arishok's face. Focusing on that stern visage helped shore up her resolve.

One corner of his mouth quirked a little. Was he laughing at her? The coals flared into flame when he asked, "Do you know why you are a corpse stinking up my compound?" He took a step toward her, looming over her; the bear preparing to slaughter the wounded fawn.

She hobbled backward another step, trying to get out of his shadow. She needed breathing room. Why couldn't he just give her a little space? He took up all the air in the city. Andraste save her, she needed air. Why was there no air? The furrows across his brow deepened, reminding her that he'd asked her a question. "I did not press the advantage when I had it," she gasped, her mouth twisting into a scowl despite trying to keep her face impassive. "I treated it as an exercise, rather than driving in for the kill." The long speech left her breathless and shaking, the trembling so bad that she almost landed on her knees once more.

He nodded, any trace of humour—imagined or otherwise—gone. "Always go for the kill. If he is not skilled enough to stop you, he will die, or take a wound that will teach him the lesson you have just learned." He closed the few feet and grabbed her wrist, pulling her arm away from her side. Pushing aside her armour, he drew up her tunic to examine the wound. "It will need to be sewn shut, but you will live." He held onto her arm, drawing her toward him. "Do not expect me to intercede again. It will not happen."

Relief coursed through her, amplifying the trembling. Thank the Maker for the huge hand gripping her arm. For a moment, it was all that kept her on her feet. "Yes, Arishok, I understand."

He released her and nodded up the stairs. "Go up and lie on the table. Someone will seal your wound before you leave." He led the way up the stairs, seating himself in his usual place.

Hawke bowed her head, both humbled and embarrassed by his intervention. He thought her weak and thus had saved her life. Anyone strong … a qunari … would be lying on the stone, her blood oozing into the cracks. Still, he'd saved her life, so he must place some value on it. That deserved respect. "Thank you for this lesson, Arishok. I will not waste what you have taught me."

Trying to ignore the strange stares from the qunari standing around her, she climbed the stairs. Each step felt like a small death as the numbness wore off along with the fire racing through her blood. She pulled aside the curtain and stepped through, blinking as she struggled to adjust to the dim light. One hand fumbled with the buckles on her armour, setting the pieces under the table as she wrestled them free. Wincing a little more with each movement, she felt as though she'd tied her face in a knot before she got her clothing untucked. A soft sigh of relief escaped as she finally shed the outer layers and laid down as instructed.

Feeling that it might be safe to look at the wound once her guts wouldn't just tumble out, she lifted her head and pulled her tunic up. A long, clean slice opened a shallow canyon from her navel around her side. She let her head flop back down, her skull making a hollow thok against the wooden table top. Sten had pulled his swing. Looking at the wound, it was the only explanation for the heartbeat inside her chest and the air that continued to flow into her lungs. In battle, her guts would be hanging over her hip and goring up her greaves.

Shame set her neck and face aflame. Despite their apparent acceptance, they still thought her weak.

A few moments later a qunari stepped through the doorway carrying a jug of water and a large needle threaded with sinew. Hawke gritted her teeth, determined to avoid crying out even though from the look of that needle, the healing would prove far more of an endurance test than the wound. Screaming would just confirm her pathetic frailty. Scalding tears of anger and humiliation burned in the back of her eyes and throat.

The qunari pulled her shirt up just far enough to reveal the wound, splashed water over it, then set to work, cleaning it and sewing it shut with deft, even stitches. She bit down on the rolled up rag he offered her, moaning … her eyes streaming tears as he set a pack of blight wolves loose on her side.

Despite what felt like a couple hours of torment, she managed to remain silent. After a quarter glass, the room around her and the talons ripping her side apart both faded into a fog. Halfway through, light from the doorway seared into her eyes just to be blocked by a shadow. She blinked, trying to focus, but then the bright light vanished, leaving her certain her imagination played pranks on her.

When he finished, she shook, exhausted past caring that her trembling had escaped her control. A surprisingly gentle touch covered the wound with a slimy, green unguent before he offered her a hand to sit up while he wrapped a serviceable bandage around her middle. When finished, he held up a waterskin. "Drink."

Thirsty after biting down on the rag for so long, she did … discovering that the skin didn't contain water, but some sort of bitter tea. When she tried to lower the skin, he pushed it at her, his glower getting his point across without the need for words. Finally, she managed to choke enough of the wretched stuff down to satisfy him, and he took the skin back.

"You may go, basra," he grunted. Although she was pretty willing to chalk it up to loss of blood and shock, she thought she might have heard some grudging respect in that grumble. She let herself believe she had. At least someone in that compound held some respect for her.

"Thank you," she said, a long sigh gurgling in the back of her throat. Thank the Maker. Next time, she just needed someone to club her in the head with the hilt of their sword.

Her physician nodded and left the space.

Hawke stripped off her destroyed shirt, covering herself with her jerkin and breastplate, then used the blouse to clean up her blood. She wouldn't leave the evidence of her failure splashed all over the Arishok's quarters, no matter how badly she hurt. She twisted a little, a curse escaping before she clamped her teeth down on the pain. Maker's breath … or how badly her stitches pulled. Finally, she took one last swipe at the edge of the table, then bundled up her blouse, hung her cleavers on her back, and ducked under the curtain.

"Return tomorrow, Hawke," the Arishok commanded as she walked past, doing her best to stand straight.

She turned, meeting him face on and bowed her head stiffly. As much as she appreciated still being alive, he'd stopped the fight because he found her weak and in need of protection. She clenched her jaw, hating him seeing her that way. Yes, she was not qunari, but neither was she a helpless viddathari waif. Next time she made a mistake that gross, she would throw herself on Sten's blade.

She unclenched her jaw. "As the Arishok commands." Managing to straighten without wincing, she turned, and walked down the stairs, moving slowly but without limping.

In her years in Kirkwall, she could not remember Lowtown being so impossibly huge and filled with endless staircases. By the time she reached the top of the stairs to the Hightown bridge, dizziness and the impossible heat of the sun left her disoriented and nauseated. Trembling so hard that her legs almost dumped her on the ground seven times in as many steps, she flopped down on one of the benches to rest. Maker, she still had so far to go.

Closing her eyes, she pulled in greedy, shallow breaths, savouring the rich smells of spices and cooking meat. The stalls at the base of the bridge always served the best food. Someone cleared their throat. Hawke opened her eyes to see the young woman who worked at the druffalo meat kiosk standing before her holding a large tankard of water, and a skewer of roasted meat on a plate made of folded paper.

She gave the woman a puzzled frown and asked, "What's this?"

"Food and water," she responded, looking at Hawke as if she must have taken a debilitating head wound.

Suppressing a bitter chuckle, Hawke replied, "Yes, that part I understand. It's the part where I didn't ask for it that has me confused." She shaded her eyes against the glare that hammered at the inside of her head. Every single part of her body felt on the verge of death.

"No, but I was told to give it to you none the less." She placed them on the bench next to Hawke and walked away. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," Hawke called after her. She glanced around, searching for any sign of a mysterious benefactor. It didn't pay to just accept unsolicited food or drink. Then she spotted him, and she shook her head as he tried to blend into the crowd. She pointed to the drink, raising her eyebrows in a questioning stare. Of course the Arishok sent someone after her. She was weak and pathetic after all.

Tillun wilted at her notice, but nodded and crossed the small market space to sit next to her. "I wasn't supposed to be seen," he said, letting out a long sigh.

"Don't worry," she said, lifting the ewer of water. The water poured like a blessing over her tongue. Amazingly cold, the bright, mineral bite of it eased back her headache. When she lowered the large vessel to rest on her thigh, she sighed. "It's not you he finds pathetic and in need of protection."

"Eat some of the meat," the elf insisted. "I've watched you … you look about ready to fall over." When she didn't move, he lifted the paper wrapping and passed the skewer of meat to her. "The Arishok said you lost a lot of blood. You need to replenish yourself."

Hawke gave in, the savoury, spicy, browned-meat scent doing as much to convince her as anything. After she took a first bite, her appetite kicked in and she bolted the rest down, the juices running down her fingers. She licked them before wiping them on the paper and then looked up to thank Tillun. He was gone.

By the time she finished drinking the tankard of water, Hawke felt as though she might survive the climb to her home. Once she returned the ewer to the kiosk, she struck out for the bridge and the long climb. The Arishok might believe her weak enough to need a caretaker, but she knew better. She'd survived the horrors of the retreat from Ostagar, she could manage to get herself home.

A soft, grey sigh escaped as she stepped into the shade outside the mansion. Home. At last. Not even the night she carried her mother back from the undercity had home seemed such an impossible destination to reach. As soon as she entered the door, she started stripping off her armour and equipment, letting it fall to the floor as she passed. The only exceptions, her cleavers, she handed to Bodahn as she entered the main room. After giving him a weary smile, she continued to the stairs, a trail of bloody clothes left in her wake.

"M'Lady," Bodahn gasped, his face almost comical in its horror. "Are you all right?"

She gripped the railing as she turned to look back. "I'm fine, Bodahn, thank you. Please ask Orana to bring my evening meal up to my room." A pained smile stumbled across her face, dying before it even got a chance to form. "And no guests tonight, please. My bed is calling." By the time she made it to her door, only her trousers and boots remained.

"Yes, m'lady." He hurried toward the kitchen, grumbling under his breath about oxmen and them being the death of her ... then her being the death of him.

A wan smile coloured her face as she limped into her room, a relieved groan escaping as she sat on the bed. She kicked off her boots and rolled over onto her good side, relaxing into her pillows with a guttural sigh. At some point, Orana brought in her supper―she smelled it on the bed next to her. Warmth bloomed along Hawke's back as the servant tucked hot, wrapped stones in against her and covered her in a thick, soft blanket. As much as she wanted to thank Orana for her care, Hawke's eyes refused to open, and she sank back into a deep sleep.

During the night, Hawke awoke to find her servants sleeping in her room: Orana on the bed next to her and Bodahn in the armchair by the fire. She grunted softly as she rolled over, clutching her arm against her wounded side as she sat up. As soon as she moved, both her people leaped up, still half asleep but insisting on helping her limp to the water closet then back to bed. As she closed her eyes, hot rocks tucked in against her as Orana fussed, and Hawke smiled. She truly was blessed in her friends.

When Hawke awoke the next morning, she felt better than she expected, the pain just a soft pinch in her side. She lifted the blanket and looked down at the bandage. Whatever the green slime was, it did its job well. The smell of bacon told her that Orana had replaced the stew from the night before with eggs and bacon, fruit and toast. Hawke levered herself up into a sitting position, straightening with some trepidation, but still the pain proved bearable. Sending her qunari healer a silent thank you, she dug into her breakfast, shovelling it in like a starving man.

"Mistress?" Orana called from the door. Her pretty, delicate features twisted into an almost amusing expression of alarm.

"This is wonderful, Orana," Hawke said, mumbling around a mouthful of eggs and toast. "Is there any more bacon? And more toast?" Oh, pure bliss. Who would have guessed simple eggs and buttered toast would prove to be the embodiment of heaven?

"Of course, Mistress, I'll get them for you." The shy elf hurried from the room, the clip of her leather soles quick and light on the tile.

After Hawke ate her fill, she endured many helping hands as she got up and walked to the water closet to get cleaned up. She found that even when she moved, the pain didn't cause much more than a quick intake of breath now and again, although she wasn't looking forward to sparring. Throwing back a potion or two to heal wounds had spoiled her. Imagining ripping her stitches open sent a heavy shudder rolling down her spine.

When she returned to her room, Bodahn had laid out her clothing, the long slices through the leather of her jerkin and surcoat repaired. She smiled and ran her fingertips over the neat, careful work. Few people were as lucky and had such good, caring people in their lives. Once she dressed, her armor tugging and pinching a little, she headed for the Qunari compound. Despite arriving a few minutes early, she found the Arishok waiting just inside the gate.

She gave him a slight bow of the head. "Good morning, Arishok."

He looked her up and down, then nodded as if he approved of what he saw. "Serah Hawke." He turned his head as if he caught a scent, made a soft chuffing noise, then looked down at her again. "Do you have somewhere outside the city where you go when you wish to restore yourself?"

Although surprised by the question, Hawke nodded. "I do."

"You will show me this place." He stepped to the gate, nodding to the guard stationed there. A squad of his men stepped forward to accompany them, but he held up a hand, stopping them without saying a word. When the gate shut behind them, he looked to Hawke once more. "You can take us from the city through hidden routes?"

Hawke nodded, relieved that he suggested it. She hadn't looked forward to walking the streets with the most feared man in the city. She led him across the street and down through a grate into the sewers. For the most part, the trip proved uneventful. A few spiders here and there, but she dispatched them without much effort. Even though his massive sword and axe hung on his back, the Arishok let her clear their path, hanging back until she finished off the enemy.

Hawke pulled in a long, glorious breath of the sea air as they emerged from the sewers on the coast, the sharp tang of salt pricking the inside of her nose. Deep, white sand covered the ground, except where the wind swept the rock clear. A few large, gnarled trees and stubborn, prickly sorts of bushes clustered in the lees and around boulders … anywhere they could gain a foothold. Hawke paused to look out toward the small islands and wrecked ships, drawing in a long breath that felt as though it cleansed her all the way down to her toes.

The Arishok said nothing, but she could feel his stare heating her back. Considering the situation, she thought she should feel awkward. Her teacher, a man of mind-boggling intractability who wielded the power of intimidation like a lash … a man of almost absolute silence as her only company. She should feel uncomfortable. Shouldn't she?

She turned to meet his gaze and inclined her head toward a path off to her left. "It's a bit of a climb from here."

He nodded, but said nothing, his expression never wavering from its usual, stony scowl.

Of course not. Onward, then.


	8. Rest and Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smiled and set out for the path. Maybe she should feel uncomfortable. But she didn't. No one else she knew could create the absolute atmosphere of peace that surrounded the Arishok. Considering the permanent scowl, she should spend all her time intimidated, but his silence allowed her to just—a long sigh whispered from a throat that hadn't relaxed since her mother died—rest.

She smiled and set out for the path. Maybe she should feel uncomfortable. But she didn't. No one else she knew could create the absolute atmosphere of peace that surrounded the Arishok. Considering the permanent scowl, she should spend all her time intimidated, but his silence allowed her to just—a long sigh whispered from a throat that hadn't relaxed since her mother died—rest.

Favouring her side, Hawke climbed slowly, leading the Arishok halfway up the mountain to a small, sheltered paradise nestled on a shelf above the sea. Unlike the shoreline and its coarse sea-grass growing amidst the sand, the mountainside nurtured a soft carpet of tangled grass, soapwort, and lobelia that felt sublime under bare feet. As she walked over the thick greenery, a sweet perfume rose up to sail along the breeze. Closing her eyes, Hawke drew in a long, deep breath, letting the scent burrow through her, soothing every ache, relaxing every muscle, and easing the tight grip that squeezed her heart.

On her right, near the shelf's lip, a stand of small, very twisted trees shaded a glorious view of the sea, its deep, black waters seeming to go on forever. Further over, the trees gave way to a wide, sun-warmed terrace covered in the low foliage. Hawke heard the Arishok walk past her, and opened her eyes to watch him cross the clearing to stand at the edge of the cliff. As he looked out to sea, he took a deep breath, grunting approval as he let it out.

She wandered over, pausing to pick a tiny, blue star off a plant growing out of the rock. From that spot, the world looked so very still. Almost still enough to make her forget that madness brewed only miles away, simmering as it awaited their return.

After several minutes of the peace and quiet settling around them, deep and comforting, the Arishok turned to face her. "You have many questions. I can see them in your eyes, restless and pacing like wolves outside a sheep pen. Why do you remain silent?"

She shrugged, beating back all the half-true, dismissive replies that rose to answer him. They would not placate him, he saw past her masks and disguises. He demanded—and deserved—the truth. "I do have many questions, Arishok, but I fear being disrespectful, and don't want to pester you for answers I can learn in due course."

He nodded. "You may always ask. You are not qunari, so I do not expect you to follow protocol." That searing, penetrating stare latched onto her. "I know you do not intend offense. So ask."

Hawke smiled, just a thin press of her lips. "As you wish, Arishok." Looking back out to sea, she folded her arms across her chest and pulled her shoulders up tight to her ears. "I suppose the biggest one is the Saarebas. Why must they live in torment? I understand that they have a weapon that if corrupted can be very dangerous." She walked right to the edge of the cliff and looked out, the currents and waves soothing as they wrapped around the rocks and curled around wrecked ships. After a moment, she sighed and turned to face him.

"You carry two very large, incredibly dangerous weapons, so should I sew your hands together behind your back, chain them there, and then put a collar on you just in case you decide to use them?" Hawke looked down into a tiny puddle in a rocky hollow at her feet, surprised by the expression of disgust on her face. Taking a calming breath, she smoothed it back into neutral planes. "My apologies, Arishok. My passion overwhelms me." She bit back adding that maybe her mouth should be sewn shut, since she had a history of losing control of it.

"I asked," he said simply. He let out a long breath and walked over to a small copse of twisted and gnarled trees clinging to the cliff's edge. "Come. Sit." Lowering himself to the ground with far more grace than she could have envisioned from someone his size, he sat amidst the roots of one tree, legs crossed.

Hawke hid a smile. It seemed that day was going to be one of wonders that did not cease. She walked over and did a much less graceful version of sitting.

The Arishok stared out to sea. "Saarebas are confounding. We call them dangerous things, but they are not dangerous in themselves. The danger is if the person is lost, their power taken over by a demon. So measures are taken. Are they just?" He leaned back against the tree and drew his knees up, resting his forearms on them. "I have seen an entire dreadnought of men sent into the waves ... towns laid waste by a single possessed Saarebas. I also know that most Saarebas live lives marked by a strength of character and discipline that is deserving of the highest respect."

He looked over at her. "Do you see so much justice among the  _bas_  that you think them able to teach it to the qunari, Serah Hawke?"

After meeting that stare for long seconds, Hawke shook her head, unable to come up with a single instance of having seen justice served. She'd killed a lot of bad people, but did any of those deaths amount to actual justice? Did killing the magistrate's son bring any sort of peace to the families of his victims? Did going out and killing all those Tal Vashoth balance any scales anywhere? The bottom fell out of her gut, her face twisting back into the mask of disgust, but that time for herself.

The Arishok drew her back from her self-loathing as he let out a rough, noisy breath. "You have just begun the path to wisdom, Hawke." He nodded. "It always begins in darkness." Looking back out over the water, he asked, "What brought you to the compound?"

She looked over, studying him … seeing him suddenly in an oddly different light. He looked the same, still huge and imposing, stern and forbidding, but also … well, not human, but … mortal rather than some sort of statue or ideal made animate. She scowled, remembering that he'd asked her a question. Right, why she'd ended up at the compound that day.

"Back around the time I first met you, a man asked me to look for his runaway wife. He thought she'd run off with a prostitute. I agreed to look, although had I found her, I would have seriously encouraged her to grab her elf lover and run, because her husband was foul." The memory of Ghyslain de Carrac filled her with the urge to vomit.

"Did you find her?" he prompted, remaining as still as death. She wished she knew how he managed that.

"Yes … well, sort of. A templar, who was looking into the murder of one of his mages, gave us some leads that we followed to a building in the foundry district. We found a crate of bloody bones and body parts. One of the pieces was a finger wearing the woman's wedding ring. We searched, but found nothing to lead us to the killer." She shifted, settling herself into a more comfortable position between roots. "Then a couple months ago, the templar contacted me again, he'd continued his investigation and discovered a suspect. The Knight Commander had ordered him to back off, so he asked me to look into it."

Leaning back, she mirrored his posture, but for reaching up to brace a hand against her brow. "I ended up killing the suspect, and he was far from innocent, but he wasn't the killer." She closed her eyes trying to ease the sudden tightness in her throat. 'Too soon,' hissed the snakes wrapped around all her organs, squeezing them until they threatened to explode.

"If you love purpose, fall into the tide. Let it carry you," the Arishok said, the poetic words strange and jarring in his voice, and yet, that just made them resonate all the deeper. "Do not fear the dark. The sun and the stars will return to guide you."

She recognized the lines from her studying. "Only in the dark does the light reveal your path," she whispered. It was a line from another canto entirely, but she understood it suddenly. "I came home from a day of hunting to discover that my mother had disappeared. I ran through the city looking for her, traced her to that same foundry." She felt his stare turn to focus on her, but it didn't feel as though he tried to incinerate her with it, in that moment, it felt like standing in a deep, fast current.

The snakes loosened their grip a little, that current tugging at them, trying to pull them downstream. "When I fought my way through the undercity," she said, her voice barely loud enough to cross the span between them, "it was too late. He'd used her in some mad blood ritual, trying to resurrect his dead wife." A long, bone weary sigh followed her words, but it released the constrictors to be washed away. "She was my mother … and I couldn't protect her." She turned to meet his gaze, not bothering to hide her tears. "I had one purpose … one task. When my father died, he told me to look after my mother and the twins. Now Carver and Mother are dead, and Bethany is imprisoned in the circle." A bitter, brittle laugh jumped out. "Complete failure of purpose."

The Arishok pushed himself up off the ground and pulled his weapons. "Follow." He led the way out onto a broad, flat expanse of sand close to the mountainside and swung his weapons around to ready. "You know the dance, now use it to fight."

Cradling her injured side, Hawke scrambled up and followed him. Injured? He wanted her to fight him while injured? She almost laughed, but his expression killed it before the spark left her mind. Reaching behind her, she took her cleavers in hand, a relieved sigh greeting how comfortably they settled in her grip. At least the endless hours of meditation and drills had managed that.

The Arishok took the first position, the size of his axe and sword almost breaking Hawke into laughter. How was she supposed to be quick enough to get past those with four dozen stitches holding her middle together? Still she took her stance, lifting onto the balls of her feet, waiting for him to make the first move.

When he did, it was with a speed that sent her scrambling to catch up. Anyone who looked at her mentor's size and weapons and expected a bear or a bull would quickly find themselves crushed beneath the destrier's strong, agile hooves. She recovered almost instantly, her new skills pulling a sharp, almost vicious smile across her lips.

They moved back and forth across the space, the deep sand a strong handicap as it dragged around her feet, slowing her movements. Hawke let the Arishok take the offensive, knowing that she'd never move quickly enough to get past his guard. Her best shot lay in letting him attack and waiting for an opening. However, after five minutes, legs that were beginning to feel the drag of the sand, and not a single opening, she began to rethink her plan.

The Arishok's voice interrupted her as she formulated her new strategy. "Do not struggle against the sand. Feel the earth beneath your feet, feel it shift, use it." He swung his axe in from the side, his foot travelling near three hands through the sand. Instead of trying to anchor himself, he allowed it to push him ahead of it, a wave propelling driftwood.

She danced backwards, trying to do as he said, but her attempts came off clumsy at best.

He swung around her, blades carving the air with a strong, clear song. "Do not push against the air. Feel it move. Allow it to cradle your limbs, and lift your blades." He pivoted his axe ever so slightly so the leading edge rose and fell, the current it created sinking it toward the earth then making it soar.

Wings. Understanding, Hawke spun away from his blow, spreading her arms, her cleavers taking flight. When she heard him coming at her, she pulled them tight, using their lift and drag to add speed, tightening her spin, throwing his sword wide and allowing her to duck in under his axe to crack both pommels into his ribs. Setting them free to take flight again pulled her past him and out of range of his counterattack.

Pivoting to come at her again, he nodded. "Allow your blood and the fire flowing through your veins to infuse your weapons with their own life. They have a will, a heart, a life." He came at her, a series of beautifully choreographed strikes that timed both weapons in a way Hawke could only call instructive. She sped up, taking the initiative, each blow meeting his steel, but just … almost as if they performed the dance.

Realization drew a thin hiss of anger between her teeth. Maker curse him; fast and hard as he came at her, he timed everything to lead her exactly where he wanted her; he was coddling her. She flew at him, cleavers whirling as she slid through the sand, ducking low at the last second to swing both weapons in from the left, aiming for the ribs on his left side. His sword appeared to brush them aside, but she'd been prepared for that and flipped over her right shoulder, a heavy grunt of pain accompanying the movement as her stitches pulled. Gritting her teeth, she completed the roll, both cleavers slicing straight for the back of his unguarded right thigh.

He spun away from her blow, sword intercepting to throw her cleavers aside. She grinned, slick and vicious. Almost, damn it … she almost got past him. Next time.

And then he wasn't there.

Hawke straightened, favouring her right side a little as she backed away, her cockiness folding into a confused frown as she looked up. He stood back several feet, his weapons down, held in relaxed hands. Her frown deepened as the anger flared back to life, a spark hitting dry tinder. "Arishok?"

He did not rise to meet her ire. "You are not in control of yourself. You have given in to your anger. Is it your intention to die before you can apply your skills in battle?" He hung his sword from his back, then rested his axe over his shoulder, watching her with one of his annoyingly inscrutable stares.

"No, but … " Hawke bristled, anger scalding and prickling like nettles under her skin. "... yesterday, Sten pulled his blow." She squared her shoulders in challenge. "You stopped the exercise then had someone follow me home. And now … I might as well be dancing." The bottom dropped out of her belly as her mouth spewed the last. Maker, she did have a death wish. Varric was right; suicide by qunari.

Instead of becoming angry, he hung his axe up as well, large hands unfastening one of the buckles on his armour. Once he got it loose, he lifted the pauldron to reveal a long ridge of scar tissue that followed the line of the leather across his chest to his shoulder. "First training wound. The sword sliced deeply enough the healers expected me to lose my arm." That heavy brow lifted. "My sword master stopped the exercise. One month passed before I lifted a sword again … " His chin tilted up a little. "... with the other hand. Three months before I returned to regular training." The corner of his mouth quirked. "Should my master have remained silent, allowed my first mistake to become my last, Serah Hawke?"

Embarrassed, Hawke shook her head. "No, Arishok. My apologies." She fumbled for words for a moment, but then simply shook her head again.

He nodded toward the path leading along the coast. "Come. Your side is not the wound from which you bleed."

Hawke hung her cleavers between her shoulder blades and followed, his words cutting deeper than if he had become angry. Her eyes studied the earth along the trail, her mood scraping along beneath her feet. The last few weeks, nothing made sense, least of all anything on the inside of her head and heart.

As crazy as it sounded, even to herself, the enigma walking beside her felt like the sanest part of her life. How had that come to pass? How did Marian Hawke, fun-loving rogue manage to just collapse? Had her entire life been built on nothing but a foundation of porcelain?

It must have been, because she felt like a vase dropped from a shelf.

"You fought at Ostagar," the Arishok stated after they'd walked for nearly a half hour. He did not look her way even slightly, asking as if the answer didn't matter to him.

Hawke nodded. "Ran from Ostagar, chased by more darkspawn than a thousand people could count." A long sigh spooled out of her as the chaos and horror of that week echoed inside her head, her heart pounding hard and fast thanks to nightmares that still left her screaming in a pool of sweat.

"During the battle, my unit protected the siege engines on the bridge. Not that many darkspawn made it up to us at first. I spent most of my time ducking shots from their catapults." A sad smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "The most notable thing I can say for the early battle is that the Hero of Ferelden, King Alistair, and I all were thrown across the bridge by the same projectile. I didn't take as hard a hit, so helped them up and kept their backs clear."

She took a deep breath, wincing a little as she pulled her stitches. "Some darkspawn gained the bridge at the far end, so Carver and I helped the two Wardens cut their way through. By then most of our catapults were destroyed, but there were wounded to defend, so we stayed." Glancing up at the long, broad planes of his face, she wondered what he thought of the battle. Probably just more evidence of  _bas_  weakness and corruption.

The one glowing moment of the entire disaster appeared in her mind. "If I carry anything with me other than the horror of the days that followed, it will be the sight of the Grey Warden charge." She swallowed hard, the beauty of their heroism dulled by their end. "They were magnificent … so few of them, but right out front, giving courage to the rest."

"They fought well?" he asked, his voice hard but low.

"They carved their way through those darkspawn like figures from myth. From up on that bridge, the battle seemed winnable. When Teryn Loghain sounded the retreat instead of a charge, we just watched, dumbfounded." She shuddered, the disbelief still as keen as the edge on her cleavers. "We couldn't see much from there other than the darkness swarm over our soldiers."

"And you fled?" he asked, his tone betraying no opinion. She glanced up at him nonetheless, searching for judgement or condemnation. Unreadable, as always.

"Four of us remained on our feet when the darkspawn came at us in earnest. Carver had taken an arrow to the shoulder and had thrown aside his great sword for something he could wield with one hand." Her left hand reached over to rub at the phantom pain in her left elbow. "The rest of us had taken some good knocks. Ten wounded lay within our little circle. I thought I would die there with the king I'd failed to protect." She chuckled, weary and bitter. "The arrogance of youth. The idea that had I been down on the field … anywhere close, I could have done something to save him."

She cleared her throat. "Leaving the battle that day burned, sitting in my gut like an ewer of lye despite the men and women counting on me to retreat and save their lives. It stills does." She bit down on the inside of her lower lip as her nauseated scowl weighed down the corners of her mouth. "Carver grabbed a supply wagon, we threw the wounded in and ran for it, picking up stragglers as we went." She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "It was a terrible few days. By the time we reached Lothering, half of them had the corruption. I sat with each, wrote down a note for their families." She swallowed hard, the loneliness and brutality of those days a memory she'd worked hard to leave behind. Failing completely. Only her family's safety kept her from running from the ones they'd met on the road.

She sighed and scuffed a toe through the sand. "I knew I'd never be able to deliver the letters, but it gave the dying a measure of peace to say their farewells before I put my dagger through their hearts."

The Arishok stopped at a wide, grassy plateau where two branches of the path came together. "Why did you become a soldier?"

She turned to face him, looking up into his eyes as she searched for the reason. "At first, to escape Lothering, to escape being my mother's strong shoulder, my sister's protector, and my brother's scapegoat." She shrugged and walked past him to look out at the sea. "Maker, I was a selfish moron. When I got to Ostagar, when I went on my first few patrols, fought off the monsters from beneath the earth … it was about stepping up, doing my part to make sure the world didn't come to an end."

"And yet you ran, boarded a ship and came here." Again, that toneless voice.

"Cowardice? Maybe after what I saw at Ostagar, I knew there was no hope for my family alone and defenseless at Lothering. There wasn't time to get to Denerim or Redcliffe. Our handful of templars couldn't defend the village, and the army was gone. I did the only thing I could think of when it became clear Lothering lay in the darkspawn path."

She drew a breath to continue, but then caught the sound of voices … not speaking common … clearly laughing and bragging, however. Striding forward, she drew her cleavers, slipping sideways to get a sight line on the road ahead. Six Tal Vashoth strode down the road, their arms laden with packs, sacks, and purses, all of which clearly didn't belong to them. Hawke let out a long sigh, wondering if they'd left the caravan alive or there were nothing but corpses for the guard to retrieve.

She rolled her wrists, glad for the earlier warm up and the walk as her muscles responded, loose and ready. The darkness lifted. Bandits she knew what to do with. No great spiritual dilemma, just bad people doing bad things. The Tal Vashoth paused when they spotted her, surprised into silence at the sight of a lone, armed woman standing in the middle of the road. After a half second, they began to laugh and call out taunts. She didn't understand a word, but some things did not need translation.

Hawke felt the Arishok's presence as he shifted ever so slightly closer. Ahead of her, the laughter ended, smirks replaced by something ugly and almost feral as they recognized him. They dropped their burdens and charged, javelins flying, swords coming off backs and hips. The old fire rose to answer the threat and Hawke ran at them, cleavers alive, humming and hungry in her hands. Spinning, her weapons barely flicking in her hands, Hawke deflected all their javelins, closing far faster than they expected.

Leaping nimbly into the air, her eyes already ahead, planning her next attacks, she slit the throats of the lead two. Her feet just touched down before she sprang into a roll, The Shank taking out the next Tal Vashoth's knee. While he tipped over and fell like an angry tree, she parted the other warrior from his throwing arm.

The pain along her side registered dimly, as if she held it at arm's length … present, but not angry enough to slow her down. Nimble, quick, and deadly, she let her body and her blades soar until she stood alone amidst bodies, blood dripping from her cleavers and her armour.

Turning to check on the Arishok, she found him still standing where he'd been before the fight, his weapons still on his back, not a drop of blood on him. A confused rage flared through her, lightning striking a dead tree. He just left her to fight them herself? What if she'd been injured? Would he have just let her be killed?

And then her own words appeared to smothered the fire completely. She'd accused him of coddling her, of believing her weak and in need of protection. A crooked smile lifted one corner of her mouth, and she bowed her head, a sharp gesture of thanks and respect.

"Cowardice," he said, the steel and stone in his tone leaving her no doubt what he thought of her assessment of herself. "Injured, in the company of someone capable of defending you, and you attacked without hesitation. They are dead, and you stand before me covered in blood not your own." He sucked in a deep breath, his chest expanding as he rolled his shoulders back. The current rose around her once more as she stared into his eyes. "Do you doubt your purpose, Serah Hawke?"

She shook her head. "No, Arishok. I do not."

Without another word, he turned and began walking toward the city. Hawke followed, his certainty … his faith in her strength and abilities settled within her, shoring up the crumbling foundations.

He'd just stood there, confident she could take out six Tal Vashoth. The crooked smile returned and she trotted to catch up, walking beside him. Although neither of them spoke the entire way back to the city, the silence remained comfortable.

"Tomorrow, Hawke," the Arishok said at the gate.

The crooked smile warmed to spread across her face and to her eyes as she bowed her head. "As the Arishok commands." She watched him walk through the gate, then turned and sprinted for The Hanged Man.

" _The Arishok showed a remarkable amount of insight when it came to helping Hawke heal the damage taken when her mother died." The Seeker turned toward the young man who appeared in the doorway to announce that the evening meal was ready. "Thank you, Timothy."_

_Varric waited until the intrusion withdrew then stood, one hand patting his growling belly. "Well, I suppose he became the Arishok for a reason." He grinned at the scowl she shot him. "He probably had to deal with a personnel issue here and there over the years before he became the great and terrible Arishok."_

" _Come, I'm hungry, and I've been able to tell you are for the past half-glass." The Seeker stood and led the way into the other room._

" _The walk in the city tipped your apple cart over, didn't it, Seeker?" Varric asked when they were seated behind plates of stew made from the previous night's leftovers. He tore the end off a loaf of fresh bread and dunked it into the gravy._

" _I heard what happened here, of course, from just about every angle, but seeing it like that. When we entered the city, I did not stop to look." She shook her head. "I was so angry, so determined that I knew what happened." Her lips curled into a wry smile around a mouthful of bread. "With your reputation, I was afraid if I went to the scene first, I would kill you before you got five words out."_

_Varric nodded. "Try watching it as it happened. Hawke … ." He cut himself off. A good storyteller never skipped ahead._

" _Hawke … ?" the Seeker asked, her brows lifting toward her hairline._

_He took a mouthful of stew, speaking around it as he said, "All in good time, Seeker. All in good time."_


	9. Dragon Dances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric moves from the known to the guessed as he continues the tale of Hawke's journey.

_Someone pounding on his door dragged Varric from sleep. He looked around, an eighth glass passing before the thick, heavy blanket of his dream drew back enough for his surroundings to register. He sat up, the tattered canopy and bed curtains flickering oddly in the low, red glow of the coals in the fireplace. Trying to make the room line up with the one in his dream broke the spell._

_He was in Hawke's mansion in Kirkwall, not that seedy inn. He flopped back over onto the clean, chantry approved bed sheets and tugged the blanket over his small clothes. He'd learned his lesson the first day when the Seeker burst into the room to find him sleeping in all his glory. He couldn't have cared less, but he was pretty sure she would pop something important inside her head before she stopped stumbling over herself and left._

_Letting out a long huff of air, he closed his eyes. His dream had been a particularly vivid and unpleasant one, so he supposed he should be grateful for the wake up. Nothing like the impossible traps of the past to give a dwarf nightmares. He rolled over, staring at Bianca sitting in the place of honour over the fireplace. The Seeker had given her back when he didn't attempt to bolt the day before._

" _You're in good company hanging up there," he said and let out a long sigh. Might as well get up. As the days dragged on, making the Seeker crazy lost its appeal. He just wanted to get out of there and go find his people. A lopsided grin tilted across his face. Funny how before Hawke and all her craziness entered his life, home was a place. Now home was the strangest group of people anyone could hope to find anywhere._

_And an excruciatingly precocious six year old._

" _I take it you are protesting again this morning?" the Seeker called through the door._

" _Not this morning, Seeker. I'm up and will be down for breakfast in less than a quarter-glass." He grinned at the stunned silence, then gathered up his clothes. Hopefully the water closet was free. Twenty people and one toilet did not make for peaceful relations._

_A half-glass later, he and the Seeker sat in their usual spots, yawning at a bright, new fire while they ate porridge with apples and spices cooked into it. They really did eat well for a portable prison._

" _Think we can get this wrapped up today, Seeker?" he asked, casting a sideways glance at her. "Most of what happened over the next few months, I can't help you with. As close as Hawke and I were, she didn't bring me into intimate matters."_

_The Seeker choked on her porridge, getting an impressive spray radius. "Intimate matters?" She mopped her face and the front of her armour with a napkin. "You're telling me that Hawke and the Arishok were intimately involved?"_

_He shrugged and dug back into his breakfast. "I thought I already had."_

_She sputtered long enough that someone came to the door to make sure she was okay. She waved them off with an impatient, "Yes. Yes." When the coughing spasms eased, she shook her head. "Qunari do not fall in love and have … relations." She shrugged, but he thought he saw a shudder slip beneath it. "Those who do are re-educated."_

_He shrugged. "It's good to be the Arishok?" She shot him a glare so pointed, it could have drawn blood. Grinning, he just spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "What can I tell you, Seeker? Hawke fell in love with that giant wall of frowning muscle. She just didn't invite me into the bedroom. Sorry. If I could have gotten some illustrations, I would have." He popped one shoulder. "They'd be worth a fortune in the right circles."_

_The Seeker took a deep breath, giving the impression of bracing herself for what was to come, then nodded. "Go ahead, tell me the parts you know."_

Hawke paused at the edge of the cliff and looked out to sea. Drawing in a deep breath of the salty, hot air, she let her shoulders drop. The Arishok's presence warmed her back, a comforting wall of strength. After nearly two months of learning from him, training with him, and of course, their adventures killing Tal Vashoth, raiders, giant spiders, and the odd wraiths and demons … all the respect and awe she felt for him in the beginning remained, even a little of the fear, but so many dimensions she never expected had evolved.

She smiled to herself as the word crossed her mind. Love. Who would have thought that she would grow to feel love for a man so inscrutable, unyielding, and downright impossible? Worse, she knew that a time would come when the world would punish her for that love. There seemed no way to avoid the fact that someday soon, things were going to go to hell, and they would end up on opposite sides of the battlefield. On that day … well, she didn't like to think about that day.

A large hand brushed her shoulder, the touch firm but gentle. She glanced back at him, smiling as he flicked a wasp over the edge of the cliff.

"Thank you."

He nodded and stepped a little closer, looking out to sea with that tight-jawed longing that he tried very hard to keep hidden. She suspected he would have already attempted to take Kirkwall by the sword if it hadn't been for their sojourns to the coast. Every day, she felt him edge closer and closer to his breaking point. She just prayed they could stave off disaster a little longer.

"A courtesy, Hawke. It was half your size."

She smiled up at him. She knew that he found how slight she was as intriguing as she found his bulk. Some days it was all she could do to hold her hand back from pressing against the massive expanse of his chest. Another unintended side effect of her weeks of tuition. She was after all, a woman and he ... he was a most impressive specimen of a man. Of course, to him, she might as well have been male. Female soldiers did not exist under the Qun. She just happened to have female bits that he couldn't care less about.

"Come." He nodded down the path and then set out, his stride long and confident. And why shouldn't it be? Personal female human bodyguards … everyone should have one. Get yours today. She did all the fighting. He just stood back and grunted approval if she took them out artfully enough. Otherwise, he just kept walking. Not that she minded. Each battle amounted to a vote of confidence, a chance for her to embrace her purpose, to gain skill and strength.

She suspected that was when she started to love him … that day after she took the wound. Making no effort to argue or convince her otherwise, and without a single word, he'd said … this is what I know you can do. I know you are strong enough to do this. It settled the broken, floating pieces of her that her mother's death set loose. It warmed her, a fire that smoldered deep in her gut, flaring up when she needed it.

And sometimes when it was really, damned inconvenient. A heavy blush crawled up her neck even as she dragged her mind away from the way that particular fire burned. One day the Arishok would witness one of those less desirable flare ups and probably refuse to teach her any longer since sending her to the Ben-Hassrath for reeducation wasn't an option. She didn't know how or even if she would deal with that. Cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders, she shoved that thought aside. She just needed to keep it locked down and hidden away.

Focusing on her purpose, she watched the trail for signs of recent travel and possible ambushes while she wondered what he intended for that day's lesson. Just as the sun peeked above the horizon, she'd met him at the compound gate and they'd left Kirkwall behind, slipping out through the tunnels and sewers to the coast. Something about the look in his eyes that morning led her to believe that raiders and Tal Vashoth didn't enter into his plans. When he stopped at the mouth of a cave carved into the cliffs just above the sea, she knew she'd been right.

She turned a slow circle, eyes checking the small, private cove while the rest of her senses stood on guard for anything coming up from inside the cave. Only a thin bar of sand kept the waves from lapping in through the crack in the stone and the cave entrance couldn't be seen from the road at any angle. The perfect place for such a prize to hide itself away. A crooked smile tugged at one corner of her mouth as she spotted two solid tracks in the sand against the cliff. When she looked up, meeting his eyes, her stare and smile bordered on teasing. He simply gestured for her to enter first.

She did as he commanded, waiting several feet into the crack while he worked to get his considerably larger bulk through the narrow crevice. Once he closed on her from behind, she set out again, every sense stretched out ahead, searching for the magical little fellow who had left those wonderful prints. She'd killed dragons before, but always with her people and not since she'd begun to learn how to soar. Heart hammering, palms sweating a little, she ran her tongue around inside her mouth and swallowed to ease the sudden dryness.

A firm hand pressed down on her shoulder. A silent warning to stay calm. She nodded, closing her eyes as she used that solid, comforting presence to anchor herself. Anything. She knew she could accomplish absolutely anything thanks to the powerful, grounded connection that tied her to the man standing behind her. She remained still, eyes closed as long as his hand lingered. When it lifted, she took a deep breath, nodded again, and set out.

Hawke ventured down the path. Like most of the caves in the area, tevinter ruins made up most of its walls, patchy stairs leading down into the main chamber. She descended the stairs, moving silently, knees bent, boots just clearing the stone. Taking a deep breath through her nose told her everything she needed to know about the cave. A dragon definitely lived there.

She glanced toward its pile of kills, judging its size by what it hunted. Not an overly large one nor fully mature, but a dragon nonetheless. Her hands twitched at her sides, longing to reach up and pull the cleavers from her back, but she controlled the urge. The Arishok approved of restraint, of not engaging until she had assessed the situation completely.

She skirted the edge of the chamber, eyes up, checking the nooks and crannies along the ceiling as she moved toward the creature's nest. Bones and half-eaten corpses lay piled along the wall. Closest to the nest, Hawke spied red markings on grey skin. A qunari. Now she knew why the Arishok had brought her there. A soft smile warmed her face even as she looked back to the dim, shadowed roof of the cave. He protected his people.

With a blood chilling screech, the dragon dropped down on her, but Hawke was ready, the twins sweeping down off her back and, with a roll of her wrists, up into a graceful but crippling arc into the dragon's wing, severing the joint so the appendage hung uselessly at its side. Hawke landed light and already moving, slipping sideways, her eyes remaining on the creature even as she gave herself a little more fighting room. It had dropped down with her pressed into a corner, the sign of a crafty predator, but she pulled the fight to the center of the chamber where she could avoid its flame.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Arishok standing back, his gigantic axe held casually across his shoulder. She knew he would not step in, not even to save her. The only time his axe would taste dragon blood was if she failed and fell to the beast. A wild grin spread across her face. He believed her capable of fighting a dragon single handedly, and even better … she knew he was right.

Hawke rolled out of the way of a blast of fire, a heady sort of howl singing from deep in her chest as the fire traced searing fingers down the back of one thigh. The pain stoked the fire within her belly, and set her heart racing. Every inch of her skin tingled, so gloriously alive that it ached. She ran to the stairs, climbing two before leaping back into battle, spinning as her blades swept up. Flipping them in her hands, she brought them down into the dragon's back. They sank into the tough scales, but came free as she rolled beneath the creature's neck. Her weapons formed part of her arms and nothing could separate them. She struck like lightning, each step quick and sure as she revelled in her body, soaring through the dance.

The beast swung at her with its claws, flapping its one good wing, trying to pull her in close, but she danced aside. She spun to avoid the knives on its feet, an almost prescient awareness of the creature bringing her blade around with the spin, arcing down into the hard ridge of scale at the crest of the creature's head.

Dying, fighting against the inevitable, shrieking denial, the dragon reared up and struck out. Hawke rolled out of the way, but the tip of the dragon's tail clipped her just hard enough to knock her off balance. She stumbled, turning to catch herself against the wall, only to end up with her face an inch from the Arishok's chest, her hands pressed against the solid expanse of muscle.

Stunned, she just stared up into his eyes for the space of five, frantic heartbeats, the entirely wrong fire flaring up. Maker's breath, he was warm.

At the end of those heartbeats, he grasped her shoulders, turning her back toward the dragon, and gave her a push, propelling her back into the fight.

Still disoriented, more from contact with her mentor than the smack from the dragon's tail, Hawke severed the dragon's head with a solid, but graceless blow then stepped back, allowing the body to realize its death without knocking her for a loop again.

When she was sure the dragon had no more surprises in it, she glanced over her shoulder. The Arishok nodded his approval. Still, she cursed herself for not being ready for the creature's tail.

Next time.

Letting out a ringing laugh, she wiped the splashed blood from her lips. A wide, joyful smile broke across her face as she returned his nod. Life—dirty and bloody and beautiful and horrible and amazing—flowed through her. She hung her cleavers between her shoulder blades and turned to the exit.

"Do you not wish to plunder the creature's riches?" he asked, his voice unusually soft.

Hawke turned back, having not even thought about what loot might be hoarded in such a place. She chuckled softly, popping a careless shrug. "Didn't even occur to me. I'll have residents from the houses come and pick it up. It can go into the foundation." She turned back to the path out.

She made it halfway to the door before she heard him following at a distance. Letting out a soft sigh at the warmth those footsteps engendered, she shook her head, reminding herself that sooner or later … disaster. When she emerged back into the sun, she scanned her surroundings for signs of any threat. Finding none, she crouched down in the sand to wash the blood from the Shank and Revenge, then her hands and face. The cold water nipped at her skin, a vigorous tingle setting in as she splashed and scrubbed, her movements bright and quick, the song of battle still singing through her blood.

She felt the Arishok charge up behind her and jumped to her feet. Spinning around to meet the attack, she stepped back into the surf, flinching away as he appeared before her. Her perplexed scowl asked silent questions as he reached out to grasp one of her wrists. He offered no answers, instead turning her hand in his. He laid it in the palm of his other hand as if comparing the two, hers appearing deceptively tiny and fragile. A raw, almost savage energy radiated from him, heavy waves of something she'd never felt battering against her. The strength of it left her breathless and wondering whether she should pull away and draw her weapons or step into him, laying her hands on him as she had in the cave.

He solved her dilemma by pressing her palm against his stomach, trapping it there beneath both of his. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she looked up into those dark, impossible to read eyes. What was it she saw there? Could it be an echo of the fire that had settled into a delicious ache low in her belly?

The Arishok's eyes never left hers, not even to blink, and Hawke felt his breathing speed up. She frowned, as she realized what it meant. The Arishok wanted her. Her scowl deepened as confusion gripped her with an odd sort of lightheadedness. The Arishok wanted her? Thoughts stuttering and fumbling over how it could even be possible, she just stared back. No. Regardless of whether or not he wanted her, she needed to pull her hand back and step away. Giving in to the desire trying to override her good sense amounted to the worst sort of madness … the sort that brought about complete disaster.

Taking a deep, noisy breath, he broke through the storm inside her head. "Show yourself to me," he said, his tone commanding, but lacking the edge that nudged it up to a demand. Oh, Maker … he wanted to see her, wanted to go further than that hand pressed against his skin. Still, if she refused, she knew he would accept her answer. They'd move on, no doubt both of them attributing it to poor judgement brought on by the heated blood of a good fight.

She tried to ignore her hand's demand to slide over smooth ripples of muscle, to travel along the scars that crisscrossed his skin … . Maker's breath … . No. She needed to fortify her resolve, to refuse. Neither would mention the moment, their relationship remaining mentor and student. And when the world threw them against one another, her heart would break only a little.

That thought echoed hollow and dry inside her chest. Her eyes narrowed as they stared up into the wide planes and stern features of his face. Her heart  _would_  break. She pressed her lips together to still them, not wanting him to see the truth of how much she cared. An answering frown deepened the lines around his eyes, the thunderclouds in that stare softening ever so slightly, asking a question that completely shattered the fragile wall she'd built.

Did she want him too?

Void take her … she did. And if another break lie ahead … if the world needed to shatter her again … the man warming her hand had given her what she needed to survive it. So yes, if she needed to break again, she'd suffer it ... but not for falling off a table. If she was going to shatter when she hit, she might as well jump off the highest cliff she could find.

Hawke pulled her hand from his grip and stepped back. Eyes never breaking contact with his, she shrugged her cleavers from between her shoulders. Placing them tip to hilt, she held them out on open palms.

He hesitated, but just as he'd waited for her, Hawke allowed him to decide whether to accept what she offered. She knew he understood her terms more profoundly than anyone else could. If they went ahead, it changed everything. She stood before him, not as his student but as a woman, placing her body and soul in his safekeeping. Although things could grow from there, they could never go backwards.

For long moments, she thought he would refuse, and she would accept it as readily as he. Sex and affection had their places under the Qun, but they didn't overlap. Then his body softened a little, and he lifted the cleavers from her hands. Chest rising and falling with deep, rapid breaths, he stared at them for a moment, then lowered his hand to his side.

Letting out a soft, tremulous sigh, Hawke reached up for the buckles on her armour, her hands shaking so hard that she fumbled, unable to thread the leather through the metal. Covering the best she could, she pulled in long, deep breaths to keep the lightheadedness at bay. Madness. Breaking down the one barrier that kept her at arm's length from a man she could never have amounted to complete madness. Her hands stalled as they lowered her breastplate.

The Arishok moved, drawing her eyes back to his face. She couldn't put a name to what she saw there, but it pulled her lips into a wistful smile. Her hands steadied and her shoulders squared. She'd spent her life holding the people who mattered most at arm's length, terrified that they'd be snatched away. And they had. Life had stolen her entire family, leaving her with so much regret. So many moments and so much love wasted.

During her weeks of tuition, somehow the Arishok had guided her to the truth that, like the tide, people came and people left. One day he would leave her. Whether he left her regretting never taking the leap or with memories to fill the void remained up to her. Her smile spread and warmed.

Too late to back pedal; she'd jumped and was on her way down. Time to fly.

His head dipped in a slow nod as if he understood everything that had flashed through her mind in those seconds. She looked down at the cleavers in his hand. Maybe he did.

Sword harness, utility belt, boots, surcoat, and greaves joined her breastplate in a pile at the base of the cliff. She unbuckled the stays down the center of her jerkin, the heavy material falling open to reveal the thin blouse beneath. Funny, she'd never been quite as aware of how many layers she wore. She shrugged it off her shoulders, feeling his eyes moving over her, torrid and intense, the rays of a summer sun at midday. She folded the long leather vest and set it on the pile, her skin prickling, warning her that she'd reached the end of modesty.

She'd never stood naked before a lover. She and Fenris had been getting there—kissing, his hands under her clothes—but he bolted before her blouse had come off. She'd never given her body much thought in regards to it being pleasing to someone else. It had always been a weapon that stayed honed by doing what she did … running around the countryside and killing things.

She unlaced her trousers, trying not to wonder if her kneecaps were oddly bony and uneven compared to other women he'd seen, or if the difference in size between her breasts really was normal as her mother had told her. She hesitated a moment before pushing the trousers down, a panicked sort of laugh bubbling in her throat at all the craziness swirling around in her head. She'd never over-thought anything in her life, but as she stepped out of her trousers and let them fall atop the pile, her eyes returned to the Arishok's patient gaze, and she knew why.

Everything … her entire life stood poised on the cusp of changing forever. No pressure.

It took a bit to untie the laces at the neck of her blouse, but after a moment of wrestling with the knot, she pulled the loose tunic over her head and set it down. Straightening, she shivered as the breeze blew in off the sea, curling around her naked limbs to remind her how exposed they were. She glanced up at the road, invisible from there, but feeling altogether too close.

Stomach quivering so hard she wasn't sure if she would embarrass herself by throwing up, she lifted her hands to untie the front of the harness holding her breasts. Before she could, he stepped forward, taking her hands in his. When had he put her cleavers down? He placed her hands on his hips, then reached out with a single, glove-covered finger to trace the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, and along her collarbone.

Her skin rose in gooseflesh at his touch, the leather of his glove slick, oily, and detached, but her trembling eased a little, eliciting a soft grunt of approval. He pulled off his gloves and tucked them in his sash before slipping his hands up her arms to her shoulders. His thumbs played over the joint for a moment, before his fingertips followed the four long, pale marks across her chest. Self-conscious, she collapsed around his hand, her arms lifting to cover them.

"Bear?" he asked, his voice low and coloured with what sounded a little like awe. His tone squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. He didn't find them ugly. His touch surprised her with its gentleness as his talons traced the ancient scars. "A big one."

Hawke looked down, laying her hand over his fingers to touch the marks herself. "Yes, it seemed massive at the time, although not as big as these make it look. It happened a very long time ago. They should have killed me, but, instead, they grew with me."

Her gaze returned to study his face as he brushed his thumb along the marks, his manner almost reverent as if blessing them. She smiled, her fingers exploring the back of his hand, tracing the bones and softer trails of veins to his wrist, pausing at a short, wide ridge of scar tissue. The skin felt like silk under her fingers, an entrancing contrast to the weather-hardened texture of the rest of his hand. "Life's little momentos."

He murmured what sounded like agreement, the sound breathy. The back of one finger brushed the swell of her breast. The soft friction set her skin aflame, and she closed her eyes, obeying her body's demand that she focus on that single, sensual point of contact. When it vanished, the absence pulled a soft, "Oh," from her lips. She opened her eyes at the rasp and slight tug of leather lacing sliding against itself and looked down, watching a single talon pull the lace free of her harness.

She stiffened a little as he laid the material open and took half a step back. Intense, almost predatory, his stare stalked down her body, raising a fiery blush in its wake. For a second, she thought he didn't like what he saw, but then his calloused palm returned to wrap around the curve of her ribs. As his thumb swept along the underside of her left breast, Hawke's eyes closed once again, obeying her body's demand that she give his touch her complete attention. Happily, she dove into the sensations, submerging herself in their thick, honey-sweet depths.

Sliding his hand up, he cupped her breast in his palm. His thumb teased her nipple, the touch slow and firm as if savouring the softness of the skin, the transition between supple breast and taut center. A gasp of pleasure and need escaped her as the sensitive flesh pulled in hard and eager, striking a spark that burned along her limbs and into her belly like a rush lamp.

His other hand slipped around her neck, tilting her head back. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, worried that letting the world back in would break the moment, Hawke did as the Arishok asked. His steady, unwavering regard drew her in, binding her in shackles forged from the fire that smoldered in her belly.

He bent down until the warmth of his breath against her mouth stole the air from her lungs, and then asked, "You desire this? You are not simply obeying?"

She nodded, just a slight tilt of her head that brushed her bottom lip against his, her tongue almost escaping to wet her lips before she caught it behind her teeth. "Yes, I want this." Her voice came out in a low, raspy whisper, her vocal chords pulled tight with the sudden need to feel those lips moving over hers.

Instead, he straightened. "Strength draws itself tall before strength as surely as weakness kneels at its feet." He stepped closer until he filled her vision, a wall of skin, muscle and sinew. The warm, earthy male smell of him set her head spinning, her lightheadedness complicated by the heat radiating from his skin. He was so warm … the energy coming off him beckoning … the sun and breeze combining to tease her nerve endings raw. Her entire body tingled with the bite of nettle stings, painfully sensitive and insisting that his hands provided the only cure for its torment.

The large hand gripping the back of her neck kneaded muscles she hadn't realized were strung tighter than lute strings, coaxing them to submit and relax. A soft susurrus of felicity whispered from her throat as Hawke leaned back, lolling in his grip. Damn, apparently all it took to bring the fearsome Hawke to heel was a few talented neck squeezes. Her body relaxing into the Arishok's hands, she reached out with all her other senses, able to see him more clearly without her eyes to fool her.

The perpetual scowl turned to cautious wonder as he bent down. His lips brushed her neck, firm kisses leaving a cool, moist trail from her shoulder to her ear. When his teeth raked the tender skin under her ear none too gently, a shudder raced down her spine, ice-cold one second and scalding the next. She let out a fluttering moan and allowed her hands to wander from his hips. Pressing her palms against the solid expanse of his chest, she stood on her toes and tilted her head back, opening her neck to him.

" _I thought you didn't have knowledge of their intimacies," the Seeker said, yanking Varric from the flow of his narrative._

_He blinked, orienting himself as she ripped away the warm sun and the soothing rush of waves against rock. Andraste's tits! He'd been on a roll._

" _I have my sources," he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. It burned, and not many things did, not after watching Kirkwall consumed in flames. "I can stop here if it suits you, Your Holy Seekerness."_

_Cassandra scowled, and for a moment their frowns dueled, Varric's winning as the Seeker broke off. She shook her head, her voice barely audible as she said, "Go on."_

**A-N:**  Sorry I've been a little erratic posting this story. Hope you enjoy now as things get more and more intense.


	10. The Beautiful Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arishok and Hawke remove their masks, tearing down a barrier that both know can only lead to heart ache.

_Who knew the Seeker possessed such a deeply rooted romanti-erotic side? Varric grinned. While he'd gleaned some of the details through watching Hawke move over the following days and seeing bruises that weren't injuries, he'd told the Seeker the truth: he didn't have the details of his best friend's love life. Of course, the mark of a true writer was the ability to dive beneath the visible. How deep could he take Cassandra Pentaghast into the undercurrents he'd guessed at before she cried uncle?_

_He covered his grin with a hand and a soft chuff when it slid from amazed to devious. Finding out the Seeker's breaking point … a quest worth undertaking._

Her heart thumped hard and quick, the organ beating against her ribs, demanding that she cut loose all the careful shackles holding her still and placid in his arms. She'd decided to fly, so why was she falling? That question demanded that she acknowledge a truth, the truth of taking flight, but that truth's name escaped her completely. Part of it lie in the fact that the Arishok waited for her to spread her wings. As great a heart as he possessed, even he was not willing to step out alone … not willing to … . What? Maker's breath, was she so great a coward? Her gut knew the name. Her fingers knew it … her lips knew it … every fiber of her being, every spark of her soul all screamed it … and yet, she held it too far away to hear.

Then, proving that he knew and read her all too well, he stepped into her, his arms wrapping around her to first, pull her in tight against his body and then lifting her into his embrace. She opened her eyes to look into his, a smile of wonder easing its way onto her face as she saw that unnamed truth in his eyes. She reached up to caress his broad cheek, the smile brightening as he leaned into her touch, his eyes closing. Oh … there it was ... right there … so beautiful and rare and right in front of her.

Leading her yet again, he leaned in, kissing, sucking and nipping as he moved up her neck and over her jaw to possess her mouth. She clung to his massive shoulders, her hands slipping under the pauldrons that covered them. Hawke grinned as her truth appeared, terrifying and as brilliant as the sun. His tongue caressed her bottom lip, passion willing to wait for her to catch up. And then she did, her lips parting, smile translating into soft, hungry kisses. Her tongue flitted along his then withdrew, shy and teasing, drawing him in.

He rumbled deep in his throat, the kiss taking on a life and rhythm she knew very well. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she lifted into him, her fingers combing through his hair.

Her skin sang with the music of the friction between them, the joy of the dance erupting through her, the fire rising to meet his challenge as mouth and hands tested her defenses. He pulled her in so tightly that the angles, edges, and buckles of his armour dug into her, but the pain—both sharp and aching—just fed the flames. When she moaned, throaty with longing and passion, his kisses turned almost fierce, teeth and tongue providing delicious counterpoints to the rough enticement of his lips. Leaving her mouth open and panting, he kissed down her neck, slipping one arm under her backside to lift her higher.

Gripping his hips with her knees, she allowed him to drape her back over his arm. One hand slipped under his armour, fingertips clinging to the band of gold that circled his arm, the other wandered along his neck and jaw. He kissed the nipple of her right breast, and when she arched into him, moaning heavily, he claimed it with his entire mouth, sucking, teeth raking and nipping just hard enough to provoke a cry that echoed off the cliffs. The heat of his mouth on her flesh set the fire roaring, the dance playing through her in shifting tides of longing and heat. The flames ached as they ignited along her skin and in her belly, demanding to be turned loose, to explode into wings. Instead, she held them back, packed them down. Not yet.

Shifting her in his arms, he slid his one hand further under her. Hawke froze, stiffening as his thumb slid under her small clothes, stroking the inside of her thigh without touching the center of her. Desire scrambled backwards in the face of inexperience, letting nerves move in. He released her breast, nuzzling his way to her neck. Patiently, he caressed her until the rough tickle of his skin and the anticipation of how that touch would feel elsewhere, eased its way through her nerves.

"Do you desire this?" he asked again, his lips teasing the soft hairs just under her ear. He stilled, awaiting her answer … his generosity … his gentleness calming her fears. If anyone tried to tell her a couple of years before that she'd be cradled in the Arishok's arms, aching to be filled … to be possessed by him.

She nodded, lifting her head to kiss him, taking his face between her hands. Meeting and holding his gaze, she smiled then kissed him again. "Very much," she whispered against his lips. "I'm fine."

She gasped, her mouth still brushing his, as the pads of two fingers pressed her open. A tremor rolled through her, a mewl of longing and need slipping out as his calloused fingers and the cool air brushed against her. A third finger slipped between the other two to sweep through her hot, wet center. She moaned, her hips rolling to press into his touch as it sent sparks racing out to snap like lightning through her fingers and toes. The dance called, her wings ached to soar … for them to soar together.

The truth … the elusive name worked its way forward in her mind as she leaned into him, her fingers tangling into his hair. Mouth open and panting against the hollow under his jaw, she felt that truth flow through her, calming any last nerves, its warmth connecting them. "Please," she whispered, knowing that he felt it as well when an answering moan rumbled deep in his throat.

Even as he explored further, sweeping the pad of a finger, then a talon around her center, he buried his hand in her hair. Cradling her head, he eased her back to cover her face with ardent kisses. His mouth claimed hers with raw emotion, reminding Hawke that despite everything his duty and rank demanded, he remained a man, weighed down by care and far from home.

She pulled back, one palm cupping his jaw, and met his eyes, searching there for what lay beneath the stoic mask. He met her stare, not flinching away from the questions she asked, the depths she sought to discover.  _Patience,_  that gaze whispered.  _Despite the fire, move slowly_.

His middle finger poised to enter her, but stopped before taking that next step, his eyes asking without words. Staring into those beautiful, silver depths, she nodded, her thighs spreading and hips lifting in anticipation. Over the months, they'd journeyed to that place and moment, something important awaiting them both on the other side.

His stare never wavered as his finger pressed firmly, continuing to ease past the tight skin and muscle. "I am not a small man," he said. The pressure softened as did his voice when her body resisted penetration.

Affection blossomed as a smile, and she leaned in to kiss his bottom lip. "You know I'm not afraid of a little pain," she whispered. "Especially not for this." Just before pulling back, she kissed his lip again, sucking on it gently before letting it slide between her teeth.

He nodded and leaned in, his answering kiss esurient as he set her down. He stepped back, his hands seeming reluctant to release her as they drifted up her back and into her hair. His thumbs caressed her cheekbones, lingering tenderly before moving to the harness that kept his armour in place.

She watched him, smiling softly as he set his axe and sword aside, understanding what it meant for him to do so. For the moment, he shed mantle and mask to reveal the man beneath. It both honoured and terrified her, for she knew that duty defined the man.

He looked up, a frown deepening the shadows beneath his brow. She sighed, knowing that he read the worry on her face. One large, gentle hand reached out to press against her cheek. "I am no longer a young man."

She pressed her lips together and nodded, understanding the meanings that threaded through all of the words, spoken and not … a single entreaty. ' _Trust me, I'm aware of what I'm doing.'_

Oh, Maker … trust. Hawke couldn't recall trusting anyone more, except perhaps her parents and her songbird. As she realized the extent of that trust, the fire settled, no longer flames that licked along her limbs, frantic and chaotic, but a deep glow, an orange sun burning at her heart. She stared at him with new eyes, her breath taken away by the powerful, animal beauty of him. As he finished undressing, her hands ached to touch him, to flow along the long lines of muscle, to follow the web of scars that dotted his skin. So much life drawn across his flesh … so much conflict … endless battles … years and years of them. No wonder some part of him yearned for sanctuary.

He closed the distance between them, a fingertip beneath her chin lifting her eyes back to his. Taking her gaze captive, he frowned, searching it for a moment before his expression softened. As it did, the stoic mask shifted, allowing her to see that he wished to feel her touch as much as he wished to touch her. Smiling, she stood on her toes to press a kiss against his lips. Running her hands up his arms, her fingers trickled along the web of veins and scars, exploring but also relishing the differing textures of his skin, the energy that snapped and thrummed beneath her caress. He felt … gloriously, wholly alive … a thunderstorm moving in … the sort that she'd once ran out to meet, racing before the wind, arms spread wide.

Delighting in the heady rush, her lips followed her fingers, curving into a tender smile as her trail of soft, moist kisses drew him in tighter and tighter. One hand tangled into her hair while the other kneaded her back and shoulders, running down the curve of her spine to cup her backside. Thumb hooking the waist of her small clothes, he eased them down over her hips until they fell to her ankles. Once rid of that last barrier, his fingers glided down between her thighs once more.

She kissed his chest, brushing the light dusting of hair with her cheek, eyes closed, savouring the tickle of it against her skin. Following the ridge of his pectoral muscle, her lips left a moist trail across his flesh until she reached his nipple. Grazing it with her teeth, she earned a lusty growl as her reward. She grinned up at him, her hands skating down over his stomach and around to the small of his back.

He bent down, one hand rising to grip the hair at the base of her skull as the other scooped her back into his arms. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, her arms snaking around his neck as he laid her back against his arm and bent his head to her breasts once again. Embracing him, she cradled his head to her bosom, his lips and teeth enticing a voluptuous symphony of moans and sighs from her mouth.

She felt his arousal against her and shifted so that she wrapped around his shaft, gliding along its length when she moved. She'd never taken a man inside her, and his member was larger than his finger by enough that she knew her body would need to be coaxed into accommodating him. Still, nothing powerful or significant was ever won without a little effort and pain.

His hand slipped under her, his finger easing into her again, pressing in further than he had before. After a moment, he pulled back, looking down at her with a combination of surprise and concern. "Have you never lain with a man?"

She shook her head, frowning a little as she saw the dance falter in his eyes. The mask fell back into place. When he pulled back, trying to place the wall of duty between them, she reached up and touched his cheek. Thumb caressing along his cheekbone, she stared into his eyes, beseeching him to listen to the song. Yes, he would be her first, and yes, they had an almost certain date with disaster, but he'd taken the twins from her hands. He couldn't leave her to fall alone. She reached out with the truth, with the connection that she knew he felt as well.

"Please," she whispered, knowing that he would understand everything layered beneath the single word.

After staring at her for another moment, he pulled her into him, his mouth moving over hers with a gentle sort of hunger. She let out a long, almost sobbing breath of relief and returned his kisses. His finger slipped an inch inside her, stroking in and out, working deeper each time. The pad of another finger teased her, rubbing and tweaking her sensitive center until the fire seared through her, that sun deep inside surely bursting out of her skin. She moaned against his lips, gasping, her muscles clenching around his finger. Patiently, he added a second finger, stretching her carefully as to not hurt her with his long, sharp talons.

She wriggled against him, not half so willing to move slowly but as always, he would not be budged, the dance taking as long as it must. His hands and mouth played her subtly, until when he finally lifted her, to guide himself into her, she clung to his neck, trembling with both eagerness and desire. She wanted to feel him filling her. In fact, she could not remember wanting anything with such reckless passion.

She cried out, leaning back against his arm as he pressed the head against her, slowly pushing into her, forcing the tight skin at her entrance to stretch and take him in. Involuntary tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, but the fire roared, her body having been artfully played so that the dance swept her away. The pain a small thing, she spread her wings, letting herself soar as her body gave way, the skin tearing a little, the muscles stretching.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, she leaned forward, pressing her brow into the curve of his neck as he finally slid all the way inside her. He moved to pull out, but she shook her head. "No, let me feel you," she whispered, panting softly as she rode out the pain. "I want to just feel you." She closed her eyes, kissing his neck, moving her body ever so slightly, savouring the feeling of him filling her.

"You have formed me to fit you," she whispered, lifting herself an inch than settling back. She looked into his eyes, knowing that he understood that she didn't just mean her body accommodating him, but that over the weeks, he had created a woman suited to him in almost every way.

He said nothing, but his grip on her tightened, and he began to withdraw slowly, sliding all the way out, teasing her entrance with the head, then sliding it all the way back in, each time a little more quickly and with a little more force. She moaned, moving in time with him, panting her eagerness to feel him loose his passion from the tight reins he used to hold it in check.

"Let go," she whispered. "You've taught me to dance … to soar on the wind. You've formed me into a receptacle fit to you, now fill me. Let go."

"You do not know what you are asking," he growled between clenched teeth. He looked away, but she pressed her hand along his jaw, drawing him back. It embarrassed him. Of course it did, but it was more than that.

She smiled, her fingers stroking his face, warm and soft, as delicate as her calloused touch allowed, her hips rolling slowly. "But I do. Do you think I've come this far without seeing at least a little of the man beneath the Arishok?" Leaning in, she kissed him, tugging at his bottom lip. "I see the angry sea that roars inside you. I see the loneliness and the longing. You keep it locked behind a wall of iron will and control because you must." She bit his neck softly, running the skin between her teeth, then a little harder. "But I see the lightning … I hear the thunder … and I'm not afraid of the storm."

She saw it then, the reason that the Qun forbade relationships, and stilled. "You are no longer a young man," she said softly, lacing the words with all the same underpinnings he had … her recognition of the sheer strength of his will and character, his dedication to his duty and his people, that he had moved far past the point of being swayed from his path. She took a breath and placed her palm against his chest. Looking down at that point of contact to remove any extra pressure, she said, "I see the storm and welcome it, but I will not compromise you."

He reached up, laying his hand over hers for a second before lifting it to his shoulder. Pulling her back into him, he met her eyes, locking onto her for a moment before their lips clashed. The dance moved from carefully matching one another to something more akin to battle. Hawke provoked him, lips and fingers, pulsing muscles all coaxing him to finally drop the wall that kept him trapped every second of his life.

His fingers dug into her back and neck, the talons at the ends biting into her skin. She smiled, letting her head fall back for a moment, breathing slow and deep as the first, jagged flashes seared along her body, seeking the ground. A soft moan answered the pain … the pressure in her belly building until its ache suffused her entire body.

Allowing him to draw her in tight against his chest, she kissed his jaw. "I've never been afraid of you," she whispered, as the wall began to fall. Her lower lip caressed the line of his jaw and along his cheekbone as she kissed him. She let the truth ride the wind, swirling around and between their bodies ... let what she offered … what they offered one another saturate the air.

"You stood before me … " His talons scored her flesh as he pulled her in to kiss her. Lifting in his arms, she squeezed all her muscles tight, her body gripping him even as he slipped from her depths. Talons gripping her shoulders, he thrust up to fill her once more. The eloquent, lush brew of skin giving way, silk before the shears, combined with the wanton bliss of him moving within her conjured a sharp, bright cry of delight and pleasure.

He moaned softly, almost breathlessly, as his grip on her body tightened. "You stood before me, alone, surrounded by unknown soldiers, soldiers all of your kind fear, and said you felt safe." His mouth claimed hers with a possessive ferocity that built until it snapped along her skin, lifting the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. He possessed her, his body enfolding her as if somehow, he could meld them into one being through sheer will and application of enough pressure.

Hawke wrapped herself around him, hands tangling in his hair as she clung to him, her solid anchor in the tempest. Returning his kisses with a passion equal to his, she revelled in the roar of the thunder and the lash of the wind. Nothing existed outside the rough rake of his teeth; the molten steel of his talons; the raw, delicious ardour of his thrusts. He was a primal force of nature, and she would have him be no less than what he was.

His mouth slipped from her hers, lips and teeth marking their way down her neck and chest. Sucking her sensitive, heated skin into his mouth, he held it with his teeth, biting down until she writhed and soft, lusty ululations escaped her throat before letting it slide free. By the time he reached her breasts, she lay back against the solid muscle of his arm, her entire being open. Fierce, hungry kisses teased, bending her over his arm, a bow drawn tight, trembling, a constant litany of desire moaning from open, panting lips.

"Hawke," he said, his lips stiff brushing her flesh, voice soft, deep and, throaty … betraying his own need, "give yourself to me." His teeth tugged at her nipple a couple of times, holding it just tight enough to lift her breast up and away from her chest wall before letting it slide free. She mewled, small, desperate wails of pain and pleasure so tightly entwined as to border on torture. Half of what came out amounted to begging, but she couldn't have said whether she was begging for him to continue, to twist her until the agonizing pressure broke her, or for him to stop.

Her hands slipped up his chest, fingertips making love to him as they journeyed up to ball into fists in his hair. Then he bit down on her nipple, the sharp pinch of teeth smashing whatever had been keeping the deep, craving desire contained. She arched harder, the bow drawing so tight that the muscles along her back and inside her thighs cramped. A harsh cry of bliss tore from her throat as her body gripped him tight for long seconds before dissolving into waves of pleasure that washed away the pain.

He let loose a bellow of his own as she climaxed, her body clamping down on his. Wrapping a massive hand around one breast, he squeezed it, his talons digging into the soft flesh as he marked the other with bites hard enough to make her cry out every time. Each wail and moan that escaped her mouth tightened his grip. Each time he inflicted another exquisite torment, her body bucked in his arms, until she panted for breath, her whole body pulsing, wrung out and exhausted.

And then he lifted his head from her breast to look into her eyes. After long seconds, he leaned in and kissed her, his lips suddenly as gentle as they had been ravenous. His tongue teased hers, drawing her in, cradling her against his chest as thrust into her hard a couple more times, then went rigid, every muscle in his body turning to steel for a long moment as he reached his own climax.

She returned his kisses softly, lovingly rather than with wanton desire, running her fingers through his hair. When he moved to withdraw, to lower her onto her own, trembling legs, she shook her head.

"No. Please, I know even for you, I'm probably getting heavy, but if you can hold me for another minute … I want to just feel this." She smiled against his lips, gently brushing her mouth over his.

He pulled back, a huge hand stroking her hair as their gazes met again. "I do not know what to do with you," he said softly. "You do not fit. I should have meditated to purge myself of this desire rather than giving in to it. Only suffering can follow."

She nodded, the truth sliding a sliver of ice through the warmth. "I know."

"This should never have happened." He growled softly, his grip on her belying his words as it tightened. "But now, I would have it happen again."

"And again," she agreed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and curled into his immense strength, laying her head in the curve of his neck and closing her eyes.

He said nothing, but he didn't pull away, holding her pressed against him.

Both Hawke and the Arishok alerted as they heard footsteps crunching down the loose stone of the mountain path. He lowered her from his arms and pushed her behind him, sheltering her with his body as he grabbed for his trousers and quickly dressed himself.

A small squad of his men appeared on the path above the cave as he settled his pauldrons back across his shoulders and buckled the harness. Hawke ducked into the cave, reaching around the edge to gather her clothes and pull them in after her. She withdrew further back as the men called out to their leader and climbed down.

She could hardly blame his people for their concern as the atmosphere in Kirkwall became more and more tense every day. If the Arishok had been gone this long on her watch, she would have been out searching for him too.

"Arishok," one of the men called in greeting.

They spoke in short, terse sentences, employing the usual vocal economy of the qunari. Hawke had begun to pick up a little of their language, enough to catch that they had become concerned when their leader did not return within his stated time frame. He sent them on their way without explanation, nor would they have expected one. The Arishok's word was absolute.

Hawke retreated to the small spring that trickled down a wall of the cave and cleaned herself up the best she could. She dressed, wobbly legs and shaking hands making everything three times harder. Once her clothing was settled in place, she tried to sit, deciding to wait for him to call her out. She got most of the way down then yelped and scrambled back up.

"Ow," she grumbled under her breath. She tried again, managing to make it all the way to the ground, but then tipping over onto one side. "Ow. The things they don't warn you about. Can't stand, can't sit. No wonder people generally do all that in bed."

When he called her out, she hobbled out of the cave, her trousers binding in all the wrong spots. But then, she saw him, standing on the edge of the water, staring out past the rocks that jutted from the sea and the boats unlucky enough to be tossed against them. She stayed back, watching him, feeling a sense of belonging and purpose and connection stronger than anything she had ever known. That connection didn't wash away the pain, but transformed it into something that steadied her legs and calmed the shaking in her hands. For the briefest of moments, that man of taut power and control had bared himself to his soul, trusting her to see it, experience and endure it, then accept it.

"Do your companions expect you to return to Kirkwall?" he asked without turning.

She stepped up behind him, standing off to one side. "They are used to my coming and going as I please. They won't be alarmed by my absence."

"My men spoke of an abandoned mine overrun with Tal Vashoth." He turned to face her. "Do you have the strength to deal with them?"

She couldn't deny that her body felt as though it had been run over by a cart pulled by a team of runaway druffalo, but she nodded, her earlier confidence glowing stronger. She could face anything with him at her back even if parts of her had begun to wonder if she'd been split in half. "As the Arishok commands."

He nodded his approval and turned to retrieve her cleavers where they sat propped up against the stone. He held them out, flat on his palms.

"Thank you." Hawke took them and hung them between her shoulder blades, their familiar weight reassuring. She shrugged her armour around a little, trying to settle everything back into place. She grinned when no amount of wriggling allowed it to sit comfortably. Everything hurt. No going back indeed.

She set out, legs feeling a little shaky until they reached the path and the climb smoothed out.

_Varric paused to ease his parched throat with a long drink from his ewer of mint water, one eye watching the Seeker the entire time. He half expected her to stop him, labeling his suppositions as 'bullshit' with that clipped tone of disdain. Instead, she looked … well ... impatient. Unable to stop himself, he traded gulping down the water for drawn out sips, watching her growing pique with no small amount of amusement._

" _Well?" she blurted, the word flying out like steam through a pressure valve._

_Varric chuckled and set down his drink. "Not worried about lies woven by a talented con artist, Seeker?"_

_The Seeker straightened in her chair. "I don't believe I ever used the word talented."_

**A-N: And Cassie ends the chapter with a burn. Go Cassie. Thanks for reading. Love hearing from the peeps who comment as well. *giant hugs***


	11. Blood and Wretched Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their more risque workout, the Arishok thinks Hawke might have a little more left in her. And who is she to prove him wrong?

 

" _This part I know about. Hawke returned to the city walking very carefully and broke under my questioning." Varric chuckled, recalling the shade of red that coloured Hawke's cheeks as he pried the story from her. Actually, her unusual amount of discomfort while talking about taking out a Tal Vashoth base clued him in to the fact that the Arishok might be jabbing her with more than his sword. Normally she acted out her mighty battles, invisible cleavers swinging through the air. That night, she curled up around the details of her days away, clutching them tighter than a dwarven merchant's gold._

" _Within a glass of taking out the dragon—"_

_The Seeker lifted a hand, cutting him off. "Let's take a few moments." She stood and headed toward the stairs. "Get yourself an ale, I believe the lads opened a fresh keg."_

_Varric followed, grinning to himself as she trotted up the stairs two at a time then locked herself in the water closet. Ha! He might just have a future writing erotic fiction. The counter in the back of his head racked up a new total on his 'The Chantry owes Hawke' tab as he poured himself an ewer of what turned out to be Hawke's finest clover and raspberry mead._

_It worried him, Hawke's deepening relationship with the Arishok. Not that he could do much other than watch and hope for the best. Hawke accepted counselling on many matters, but she turned into the most stubborn of snapping turtles when anyone brought up the qunari. Varric believed his best friend was working on finding a way to get the qunari out of the city without a fight, and she worried that one of the more talkative of her companions might let her plan slip._

_And, of course, she had been, but her reticence about the Arishok had nothing to do with removing the qunari threat._

" _All right." The Seeker threw herself down into her chair, an ewer of mint water sloshing as she thumped it down onto the side table. "You actually know what happened through this part of the story?"_

_Varric nodded and took a long swig of the mead. Andraste's knickers, he hadn't tasted anything that good in a very long time. After another swig, he settled in, beginning his tale._

The Arishok led the way back up the mountain to the Tal Vashoth camp. Pushing herself, Hawke focused on channeling her pain and weakness into the fire, managing to keep herself on her feet and moving forward. Just before they reached the main path, he stopped and turned to face her, his scowl translating to concern when he stepped into her.

His thumb swept across her brow and down her cheek, his scowl deepening. "You are in pain," he said matter of a factly. Without giving her a chance to confirm or deny it, he pulled a waterskin off his belt. "Drink."

Hawke opened her mouth to say she had her own, but a single shake of his head changed her mind. "Thank you, Arishok." She pulled the stopper and took a drink. Expecting water, she nearly spat the bitter tea straight at him. Sputtering a little, she managed to swallow, but not without making a face. She chose not to see the amusement in his eyes, focusing instead on the gesture … his concern. He held his emotions so close to his chest that anyone who didn't focus a considerable amount of effort into learning to read his minute tells would think him lost to stoicism. She knew better.

She took another, absent drink, coming even closer to spitting it out as it crept up on her. Maker, it didn't taste any better than the first time, sitting on the table in the Arishok's quarters, her side held together by a ridiculous number of sutures. When she tried to hand the skin back, the Arishok shook his head, making her drink another five swallows before he accepted it.

He waited, staring into her eyes for long moments before he gave a soft grunt, nodded and turned back to the path. When Hawke set out after him, a grin bloomed across her face. The pain had eased and her legs felt steadier under her. Whatever the wretched tasting stuff was, it helped. In hindsight, it had probably been the only reason she made it back to her home that day. Maybe it didn't taste that bad after all. She grinned and jogged a few steps to catch up.

They climbed, Hawke's eyes shifting between the trail and the broad shoulders ahead of her. As the sun slipped toward the horizon, the shadows stretching dark and chill behind them, questions began to whisper through the pain. 'Why' began most of them. Why her? Why had he initiated sex when it could never be anything else? Why had she accepted? The whats followed close behind the whys. What now? What were they to one another? What did she do when everything went back to normal? Did she want everything to go back to normal?

She ran straight into the Arishok's back, nearly falling on her aching backside before a hand gripped her upper arm, keeping her on her feet. The searching stare focused on her face again, his brow furrowing a little, but the concern didn't return. She nodded, letting him know that she was fine, just unforgivably oblivious given the circumstances.

Looking up, she saw the sun had fallen behind the mountains, the light just clinging to their shoulders. The Arishok crouched, lowering his huge frame to about the height of an average human, and motioned for her to come forward. Hawke nodded and crept up the trail, her boots silent on the rock. Two Tal Vashoth stood outside the mouth of a cave, but she knew they wouldn't be the only sentinels.

She signalled to the Arishok that she was going to circle around to look for hidden guards. Leaving the path, she circled behind rock and bushes, finally climbing an outcropping to get a bird's eye view. Halfway up, she laid down, biting her lip to suppress a moan that wasn't entirely thanks to pain as her battered and swollen breasts pressed against her armour. After taking a second to center herself, she lifted herself just high enough to clear the rock and crawled forward.

Three Tal Vashoth sat just below her perch, roasting a nug over a small fire. She bit down on the inside of her bottom lip, worrying it as she considered her options. She couldn't take all five at once. Not with their javelins. She'd have a five foot chunk of metal and wood sticking through some part of her in under a minute.

If she attacked the guards at the cave mouth, this group would enter the fray before she could even get one of the others down. However, if she was quick, she might be able to get one or two of these down before they could raise an alarm. Even if they did, the guards at the cave mouth wouldn't be in a rush to abandon their posts, it being the more vital position.

Wriggling back down the rock, she left them to their nug, needing to check the rest of the area before committing to battle. Fifteen minutes later, she returned to where the Arishok waited. She signalled the enemy positions and her intention to take out the hidden enemy first. When he nodded his approval, she returned to the outcropping of rock. She rested at the top, her entire body screaming for mercy. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, centering herself and channelling the pain into strength. If there was one thing she knew for certain, the Arishok never asked her for anything that she could not give.

It was a test. She knew that as surely as she had ever known anything, but it wasn't a test to prove her worth to him. He'd more than adequately demonstrated his esteem. No, this was about proving her worth to herself. Somehow, he knew that she'd start second guessing herself and what they'd done about the same time her clothes hit her back. And she had. Over the hour long climb, she'd focused on the questions 'why me' and 'what now'. Her brain's responses ranged from the practical and believable—blood heated to boiling by a good dragon fight—to the ridiculous … she blushed as the crazier ones played through her memory, then forced her herself to focus on the fight ahead.

She crouched and waited until her legs steadied before picking up a large rock. Giving it a good heave, she lobbed it into the bushes on the far side of the clearing, away from the cave. The Tal Vashoth alerted, but made no move to investigate. She cursed their lack of curiosity and threw another. This time they stood, one leaving the clearing to check it out. One of the others followed, but only went as far as the edge of the campsite.

A grim smile of satisfaction split her face. Good enough.

Hawke pulled her dagger and slipped down onto the back of the closest, sinking her dagger into his spine at the base of his skull. He dropped without a sound.

Hawke rolled clear, leaving her dagger buried in her first victim. She shrugged her cleavers into her hands and jumped toward the second Tal Vashoth even as he turned to see what was going on. She spun, her foot sweeping out to get him off his feet, the edge of her right hand cleaver sinking into his throat before he could call out.

The third Tal Vashoth returned to the campsite, stopping dead at the sight of his dead companions, but Hawke kicked the side of his knee, shattering it before he could register her presence. He went down with a grunt of pain, but then his head toppled from his neck and rolled to the fire pit. Hawke shouldered her cleavers and hurried over to retrieve her dagger. She wiped it off with a handful of grass then crept toward the mouth of cave.

The shaky looseness of her joints and the trembling in her long muscles let her know in no uncertain terms that she didn't have the stamina for a drawn out fight. She needed to take at least one of the sentries from stealth.

Sticking to the deepening shadows, Hawke closed in. The two men remained alert but relaxed, obviously having heard nothing. She moved in on one, keeping a short stack of crates between them. Once she managed to wriggle herself in close enough, she leaned out, snicking through the tendons and ligaments behind his knee with her dagger. The giant went down, calling out more from confusion than pain or fear, but then she grabbed him around the neck, her blade silencing him permanently,

The second came for her, but Hawke rolled clear, hitting her feet, her cleavers already in her hands. The dance began, Hawke having the advantage in speed and agility, the qunari taking the advantage in nearly everything else. With each swing, parry or dodge, Hawke felt her reactions slowing, her cleavers dragging heavier and heavier in her hands. Still, she stayed with him, immersing herself in the dance, her blades sweeping in graceful cuts that found their way past his defences. At last, he went down, knocked back by a kick to his solar plexus, and she ended his life.

Hawke gasped for air, her cleavers held ready, but slowly sinking toward the ground. When she saw no evidence of the fight having alerted anyone, she shouldered her weapons and reached for her water skin.

The Arishok approached, surveying her handiwork with a slight nod. He reached up, stopping her from drinking, then passed her the flask from his belt. "Drink this."

"Thank you, Arishok." She took the flask, gulping down five quick mouthfuls. It didn't taste nearly as bad that time. After a couple more draughts, warmth spread through her, the trembling and constant pain easing. A few more and the fatigue drew back enough that she felt the fire burning in her belly again. Every breath she took pressed her breasts against her armour, and every time she shifted her weight, raw, tender surfaces rubbed against one another.

A soft grunt accompanied a nod, and he held out his hand. "That is enough. Drink your water."

"Thank you, Arishok." Hawke passed the skin back then drank deeply from her own. Sated, she hung it back on her belt and looked up at the sky. The sun had disappeared completely, the sky along the horizon already a deep navy. No doubt he intended for her to clear the cave, since they had come this far, and he didn't do anything by halves. She rested for another moment, then stepped into the mouth of the cave. She needed to clear the outer chamber before she lost the light completely.

The tunnel was clear as far as she could see ahead, but obvious sounds of life echoed along the rock. She crouched and closed her eyes, sorting through the layers of sound. The cave had four chambers. Four Tal Vashoth moved in the first chamber, three in the next, but the center one held at least ten. Their conversations and movements overlapped so that she couldn't decipher them all.

Two sets of leisurely footsteps warned her of a patrol about to enter the tunnel where she crouched. She moved to find cover, but the Arishok cleared his throat. When she glanced over at him, he shook his head. Nodding in reply, she dug down deep for the stamina and guts she knew he could see.

The two Tal Vashoth walked into the tunnel, not noticing her until she moved to strike. They froze, staring at her for a moment before noticing the Arishok at the mouth of the cave. Their confusion at the odd pair of intruders gave Hawke her opening. She charged them, one cleaver high, the other at waist level.

One threw a javelin at her, but she turned sideways, easily avoiding it. She spun out of the way of the next. It grazed her armour, but didn't find flesh. She completed the spin with a kick that landed squarely in the first one's gut. He staggered back, but she merely stepped through the kick, swinging her other leg around to connect with his knee. Falling, he died even before he hit the ground.

The second managed to throw another javelin, but she knocked it aside with her cleavers, leaped nimbly into the air, bringing both cleavers down, one on each side of his neck. He flailed, knocking her aside. Hawke rolled when she hit the ground, bouncing back to her feet. She flipped her cleavers around her hands then stepped into a sideways slash that sliced through his throat.

Hawke leaned against one knee, breathing hard, her cleavers dripping blood onto the crushed rock. The Arishok walked up to stand a few feet away. He said nothing. Hawke closed her eyes, her senses stretched out into the environment as she collected herself once more. There were a lot more warriors waiting to meet her blades.

Wind regained, she struck out for the next chamber. Although the Tal Vashoth held the advantage in that she entered their space, the dance lasted only a few minutes. Hawke kept moving, her stamina becoming so tenuous that she was afraid to stop. She carved through the three in the second chamber, stumbling as one of their swords pierced her defences and sank into the muscle of her side. She spun away, turning into the blade to yank it from his grip, then pulled it free and tossed it to the other side of the chamber.

By the time she finished them off, she was beginning to believe that this particular lesson might just end with her death. Her entire body screamed, the high pitched shrill of a nug in a mabari's jaws, and nothing eased the trembling in her limbs. Fatigue moved in and set up house.

Enough of that. The longer she stood there, the weaker she'd get. She listened to goings on in the last chamber and let out a long, resigned sigh. Eight more. How was she supposed to take them all? She could barely stand.

The Arishok thrust his drinking skin into her hand. She took a couple sips, gasping weakly between them.

"More," he said quietly.

She gulped down another couple of mouthfuls, sinking to one knee on the gravel. Leaning heavily on her thigh, she swallowed another gulp or three, the warmth of the liquid finally seeping through her tissues. The Arishok reached down for the skin. She passed it back and staggered to her feet.

Before she moved away, he cupped his hand behind her neck. "Look at me." Squeezing the back of her neck gently, he held her still until she did as he asked, meeting his concern with a nod and a deep breath. He returned her nod, but didn't release her for another few seconds.

"I'm fine," she whispered, despite being fairly sure she was anything but. Reaching up, she laid her hand over his for a moment, then turned toward the entrance to the main chamber. She wouldn't let him down.

The entrance to the final chamber was a narrow passage about five feet long. If she could force them to engage her there, she would be able to negate some of the advantage they had in numbers. At least they wouldn't be able to flank her. Out in the open, they would bring her down within seconds. She glanced up at the Arishok, but he just regarded her with the same unreadable, neutral expression, apparently letting her decide how best to deal with the challenge. She took a deep breath and turned to the passage.

Standing in the narrow entrance, she pulled her dagger, rolling her wrists and shoulders to ease the stiffness in them. For a moment, she considered calling out, but decided it was best to not alert them all at once and bring them stampeding down on her. Instead she waited patiently, using the time to center herself the best she could.

One noticed her standing there and took a step forward, nudging the fellow next to him. They approached her seeming more curious than anything else. One made a comment to the other and they both laughed. Hawke wasn't sure she wanted to know what they were saying. None of the Tal Vashoth she had fought over the months showed any interest in anything other than killing her. They'd never tried to capture her, so she'd assumed that rape wasn't something that occurred to them. Still, she'd rather not test that theory. She wondered if the Arishok would stand by if it came to that, or if he would step in and put her down himself.

Neither of the men approaching drew their swords. Their overconfidence when facing a tiny female human often proved to be their downfall. She smiled at them, a quick, hard flick of her wrist embedding her dagger into the eye socket of the one who first noticed her. He staggered into his companion, knocking him off balance.

Hawke leaped forward, severing the spine and opening the artery of the second before he registered what had happened. She retreated to the passage as others noticed the sudden activity and closed in. She hefted her cleavers and rolled her wrists, suddenly wishing that she'd had Sebastian teach her archery.

Five rushed her at once as the shock wore off, and they realized they were under attack. Hawke dodged javelins, knocking some aside with her cleavers. Then they were on top of her and the dance began in earnest. She sank deep into herself, her eyesight softening and losing a little focus as she opened it to a wider view.

Although the dance suffered for her weariness, she slowly whittled away at them, using the entrance to control their numbers and movement. They attempted to drag her forward so they could circle behind her, but patience had found a home in her heart and her head. She waited until she saw her moments, although taking advantage of them proved more difficult. Slow and heavy, her cleavers lagged rather than soaring as they had hours and hours before.

She began to doubt her ability to finish out the fight, her legs trembling so hard that she barely turned two strikes from a spear. She swiped at the last lunge, going down on one knee. The Tal Vashoth taunted her, jeering, the spearman coming in for an up close kill. Hawke turned her cleavers in her hands, rolled her wrists out, then swiped across, crossing her arms. Both blades struck true on the insides of the spearman's thighs. He fell, tendons sliced through as well as both major blood vessels.

Hawke staggered up, bringing his spear with her. Before the remaining Tal Vashoth comprehended that his companion had been taken down by a woman on the edge of collapse, the spear punched through the soft spot just under the join of his ribs, then erupted out next to his spine. He stumbled, going down on one knee, then with the flick of a cleaver, Hawke cut his throat.

Dripping blood, she went down onto her knees again, one hand pressed to the gravel. Between wheezing breaths, she listened to be sure that she'd finished them all off. Silence reigned. She glanced behind her. The Arishok stood a pace behind her, his sword and axe in hand. Grimacing, she sank down onto her heels. He'd thought the fight his to finish. He heart dropped, until she looked into his face. The expression burning there wasn't disappointment or pity.

The small display of emotion disappeared as he hung up his weapons and gave her a single nod, but she knew she'd seen it. Her doubts about her fate if Tal Vashoth managed to get her down faded. She returned his nod, but stayed on the ground, more than content to keep him waiting for a few more seconds. That determination lasted only until the chill started to seep into her muscles. If she stayed down too long, her muscles would seize, and while the wound in her side wasn't all that serious, the cold and exhaustion made the walking death a very real threat.

Using the spear, she shoved herself up, resting for a moment on her knees before heaving one foot under her and staggering up. She hung up her cleavers and hobbled into the main chamber, staying cautious just in case anyone hid, lying in wait. However, nothing moved and she made it to one of the fires before she went down on one knee again.

The Arishok had followed, keeping to a distance, but when she hit the gravel, he motioned for her to remain where she was. Grabbing two of the Tal Vashoth by an arm, he dragged them from the chamber. She watched him go, wondering why he bothered. Perhaps he intended to stay there that night. Her entire body cheered at that thought despite the gelid air working its way through her clothing to gnaw at her.

Hawke leaned against her thigh, the gravel digging into her knee until it became more uncomfortable than she was exhausted, and she shoved herself to her feet. She stumbled over to a set of stairs and lowered herself onto the top one. She groaned as all the raw and bruised bits of her complained, but then just told them to shut up and took a few swigs from her water skin.

It didn't make a bad spot to spend the night. Fires dotted the floor of the chamber, simple pallets made out of blankets and grass arranged around them. Baskets of food, hanging kills, stocks of firewood lined the far wall. A small spring trickled down the rock into a clay pot.

"All the comforts of home." She curled her lip at the dead. "Well, except for them."

The Arishok returned with an armload of fir sprays from the trees outside the cave. He dumped them next to one of the fires and walked over to her. He offered her his drinking skin, but she shook her head.

"I'm fine, thank you." She looked up into his eyes. "Are we returning to the city?"

"Not tonight." He nodded toward the hanging deer carcass. "Carve off some meat and start it roasting while I dispose of this ... filth."

Hawke nodded, just a weary dip of her head. She felt run over by a herd of druffalo. "As you command, Arishok." She looked down at herself and shuddered. Blood, clumps of hair, and things she didn't even want to think about covered her from head to toe. First, she needed to splash down her armour and wash. She harboured no desire to eat any of the things clinging to her.

Before she stood, she stripped off her armour. Pushing up off the stairs, she thumped down the last couple on wobbly, wooden legs. Maybe she'd feel a little more human after she got the gore washed from her skin.


	12. Kaatash-hasaam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither spoke as the Arishok cleared the corpses from the chamber. He never left for very long, so she figured he threw them into the deep fissure that ran along the side of the second chamber. The cave spiders and rats would appreciate the carrion. That thought sent a slight shudder down her spine. There but for the … she stopped, a bitter chuckle greeting the rest of that thought. The Maker's grace had nothing to do with it.

Once she finished washing, Hawke moved to do as the Arishok asked, skewering several chunks of the venison on a metal rod before setting it over one of the fires to cook. Her entire body still trembled far too much for her to feel confident standing. Still, a crooked grin greeted the warmth that poured through her. A dragon and an entire enclave of Tal Vashoth … she would have never thought herself capable of that. And it never occurred to him that she wasn't.

Well, maybe right at the end, it occurred to him. She was pretty sure that he'd been prepared to protect her if she'd gone down. What that meant … . A puzzle for a clearer head. Still, he'd let her finish the fight.

She filled her skin with water from the spring then set a crate next to the fire, lowering herself onto it with a hearty groan, followed by a laugh at the amount of complaining that came from between her legs. She felt like a hundred year old beating victim. Still, the looks on the faces of her opponents as they flipped from mocking and thinking her an easy mark to realizing they were dead men, helped damp down the waves of agony as they washed through her in time with her pulse. She turned the skewer. They should have known better. A lone woman ends up halfway through a cavern full of warriors and they just assume she somehow managed to stumble past the first ten of them?

Oh well, the more the enemy underestimated her, the easier her task. From behind her, the sound of boots on the gravel brought her smile back. As much as being underestimated might help in battle, it felt bloody amazing to have someone understand exactly what she was capable of. She turned the meat.

Neither spoke as the Arishok cleared the corpses from the chamber. He never left for very long, so she figured he threw them into the deep fissure that ran along the side of the second chamber. The cave spiders and rats would appreciate the carrion. That thought sent a slight shudder down her spine. There but for the … she stopped, a bitter chuckle greeting the rest of that thought. The Maker's grace had nothing to do with it. She turned the meat and took a long drink from her water skin. As she pressed the cork back into the neck, a frown pinched the skin around her eyes.

The Maker really did have nothing to do with any of it. She looked up at the man who had everything to do with her skill and continued existence. Finished removing the bodies, the Arishok had moved on to hunting through the packs, crates, and barrels scattered around the cavern, collecting blankets and other small things. She owed her continued survival to that one, very mortal—albeit larger-than-life—being. Watching the Arishok arrange the fir boughs then layer blankets over them to make a pallet, she felt a door close inside her. A slight nod acknowledged that path reaching its end. Time to stop throwing prayers into the void.

"Is the meat cooked?" The gruff voice pulled her away from the end of those thoughts, grounding her. It struck her rather suddenly that she sat in a cave making the evening meal for herself and the most feared man in Kirkwall. Although she understood the inherent fear of the heretical giants from the mysterious north, she really had never truly feared him. Nervous, certainly … the Arishok could make a rock shake in its boots, but fear … never.

Hawke grinned, then let out a bright chuckle as her stomach grumbled, responding to the absolutely gorgeous smell emanating from the sizzling meat. "I sure hope so." She pulled her small dagger and cut into one of the pieces, burning herself a little as the meat spat and complained. "Yes, it's ready."

He walked over to the bed of branches, set down his armload of supplies, and held out a hand. "Remove it from the flame, and come here."

She did as he commanded, standing before him.

He grasped her wrist, stretching out her arm and pushing up the loose sleeve of her blouse, checking her for injury. After looking over her other arm, he pushed her jerkin off her shoulders, setting aside, and lifted her blouse on the side where the javelin had gotten past her defences. A soft grunt greeted the deep gash in her side. "Undress and lie down. Cover yourself with blankets. The air is chill." His orders given, he walked over to the fire, poured a kettle of water, and hung it over the flames to heat.

She obeyed, pausing to peer down at the thick crust of blood and lymph that poured down her side to glue the waist of her trousers to her skin. Funny, she still didn't really feel it. Maybe it was something in the bitter elixir he'd given her to drink. However, as she picked and tugged, trying to pry her trousers loose, the wound decided that pain was entirely appropriate and complained bitterly. Sighing, she achieved victory and pushed them and her smallclothes down. Awkward and sore, she eased herself down onto the sweet smelling bed he'd prepared and pulled off her boots.

Suddenly shy, she hesitated halfway to the tie holding her breast harness in place. He didn't need her breasts uncovered to clean the wound in her side. However, she knew that his orders never came in degrees. Half measures and almosts did not exist in his universe. She removed it then took her time folding everything neatly, piling her clothes on top of her boots. When she positively couldn't find anything else to busy herself, she laid back. As she stopped moving, the cave's dank chill closed in, lifting her skin into goose pimples and tightening her nipples until they ached.

Vulnerability … feeling exposed and unguarded never sat well with Hawke, and she twitched, her whole body wanting to close up … draw her knees up, drop her arms across her chest like gates being barred. Heart beating fast, breathing shallow and quick, she succumbed to her exhaustion, dizziness spinning the room around her in ever-quickening loops. She felt as though she lifted from her body, floating just out of reach. Nausea gripped her, tying her into a ball of misery as she rolled over onto her side, heaving a little even though nothing came up. Her muscles, already trembling, began to shake uncontrollably.

She knew the name of the problem. Over the years, she'd seen it hit a lot of wounded soldiers, some who even hadn't taken a wound, but suffered through long hours of fighting. She just needed to breathe … to get her heart to slow down a little … to get warm, but the chill just deepened. Blankets. She shook her head at her own lapse. The Arishok had told her to cover herself up.

"Hawke." A warm, strong hand pressed to her forehead, anchoring the room. She leaned into the glorious heat of it. So warm. So safe. When was the last time … ? The thought disappeared beneath a wave of dizziness.

"Breathe slowly." The Arishok slipped an arm under her shoulders and sat her up a little, holding the waterskin to her lips. "Drink."

That time she didn't argue, keeping her eyes locked on his as she leaned into his solid, impossible strength, gulping down huge mouthfuls of the draught. He nodded after several swallows, then lowered the hide flask. She closed her eyes, leaning back against his arm, a sigh escaping as her limbs stopped trembling.

"Look at me," he commanded. When she obeyed, he nodded, apparently pleased with what he saw. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you, Arishok," she replied, sitting up under her own power as the symptoms began to abate.

"Good." He leaned her forward, gentle fingers checking the scrapes, scratches and punctures that covered her back; all wounds inflicted by his talons.

Hawke drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her brow against her uneven, bony kneecaps. Breathing slowly, she clenched her teeth against the pain that seemed to stab at her from every angle and waited for the dizziness to fade. It eased as the warm cloth and firm touch worked its way down her back. A slight smile formed as his ministrations drew her attention to just how freely he'd given in to the storm.

"Lie back." He supported her neck with a hand as she stretched out and laid down, the vulnerability of it no longer terrifying. He knelt beside her and, after spreading a blanket over her legs, passed her an uncorked, wide-mouthed, clay jar.

"Hold this." He laid his gloves next to the pile of clothes by her head, then examined the wound in her side. "It will leave a notable scar," he said, with what she was sure was approval. He cleaned the wound then went into the small pouch attached to his belt, pulling out a folded piece of paper. Within lay a coiled length of suturing gut and needle.

Hawke let out a short, involuntary sigh and looked down at the still red line of scarring that bisected her right side. "Will I ever just be able to take a healing potion or two?"

He glanced up, meeting her eyes as he shook his head. "When you stop allowing the enemy to stab you."

Hawke's mouth twitched in response to that logic, but she managed to hold back the smile.

He offered her a length of rolled up blanket to bite down on, but she shook her head, not caring if she hollered. Pain, like struggle, was an illusion. She closed her eyes, allowing the pain to flow through her, feeding the coals that burned within. The inappropriate, but heady flames leaped to respond, leaving her struggling to stay still, the muscles through her belly and hips rolling like waves. She felt the heavy blush that crept up her chest and neck, but just kept her eyes closed and tried to think of anything except how her thighs ached to feel him between them.

When he finished, she peeked out of one eye, mortified until she saw the way he looked down at her. His expression never changed, as forbidding as always, but something gleamed in his eyes, a sort of blend of confusion and wonder.

"You are  _kaatash-hasaam_ ," he said, nodding with a strange gravity, as if suddenly he'd discovered the answer to several mysteries.

Hawke frowned. "Arishok?"

"One who derives pleasure from pain." He nodded again and let out a breath as he reached up to swipe two fingers through the unguent and spread it over the stitches. "All exceptional blade masters must embrace pain. If you fear injury, you are best to wield bow or spear."

After cutting a strip from the edge of a blanket, he folded up a clean cloth from his pouch and bound it over her wound. Then, with meticulous care, he went over every inch of her, cleaning the knicks and scratches obtained from both the fighting and his own talons. Spreading her legs, he examined the damage she'd taken down there as well. Not showing any reaction as she bucked helplessly against his fingers and cloth, he washed her and spread a thin layer of the salve over her painfully aroused center.

Finished, he gave a nod of approval, took the jar from her hand, corked it and set it aside.

She smiled and sat up. "Thank you, Arishok."

He draped a couple of blankets around her shoulders, then brought over the meat, sitting beside her to share it.

Hawke groaned with animal pleasure as she bit into the roast venison, the juices running over her fingers. Her stomach growled like a starving wolf, not having eaten since that morning, and she devoured five fair-sized pieces before she turned down the next one offered. She licked her fingers, looking up as the Arishok began to eat, noting that he hadn't touched it until she'd had her fill.

"Is there enough?" she asked, the keen bite of her oblivious selfishness prickling along her neck like nettles. "I could set some more over the fire."

"It is enough." He didn't look up as he replied, eating far more neatly than she'd managed.

Hawke stood, pausing as she straightened. The weight of her exhaustion and pain lifted, leaving her feeling light and powerful. Between the magical waterskin and the green slime, he'd worked a small miracle. She stretched, letting out a long, delighted trill of pleasure as her muscles all tightened. "The pain, it's almost gone."

He did not look up. "Good."

Hawke grinned as she wrapped one of the blankets around her, then headed out into the night to relieve herself. Upon her return, she washed up at the spring before sitting back on the pallet of pine boughs. She pulled her blankets more snugly around her as the chill in the cave tried to work its way back in.

When the Arishok finished, he left the cave, returning a few moments later to wash. She watched him as he undressed then used the rest of the warm water to bath the detritus of the day from his skin. And as she watched, appreciating the ease and complete confidence behind every movement, she wondered how he balanced the load he carried. He made it appear effortless despite how much broader and greater his concerns were. He was the body of his people, moving and commanding so many.

Her burden consisted of herself, three servants, and eight companions, and yet most of the time her life devolved into complete chaos, people pulling her in so many directions that it felt as though the wind tumbled her wherever it wished. She clung to the edge of a very high cliff by her fingertips, and the Arishok … the Arishok was the cliff, holding the world upon his shoulders.

He scattered her thoughts, seabirds abandoning the cliff to take to the wind, as he laid down behind her. She couldn't help an incredulous smile as he pressed against her, draping a single blanket over his lower body.

"Lie next to me, my body will help keep you warm." He held up his arm, inviting her into his space.

She did as she was told, lying stretched out with her back pressed against him, but even his warmth was not quite enough to ward off the cold. Hawke tucked her hands under her arms and curled into as tight a ball as she could to hold her body heat in, but still she had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering.

"You are still suffering from the walking death." The Arishok stood, leaving her back cold, and fed more wood onto the fire. She watched him work, openly admiring the view. The coals in her belly sparked and snapped, but she let them. They heated her from the inside out in a most tingly, delicious way. She hid a bashful smile behind a hand as her exhausted, aching body decided it could rally for a little more exertion providing it involved wrapping herself around him while he sated her new, hungry emptiness.

Once satisfied with the fire, he rummaged through the Tal Vashoth packs, finding another couple of blankets that he layered over her. Stretching out along her back once more, he wrapped an arm around her. He tucked her in tighter along his body and tugged the blankets further up her shoulder. "Better?"

She let out a sigh as her jaw relaxed, the blankets trapping his heat. "Yes, thank you."

He leaned up on his elbow, his head resting in his hand. "Many nights since my exile here began, I have stood at my window and watched you fight through the streets below. Why does she do this, I asked. I thought it greed, but even after your rise in wealth and station, you patrol the streets more faithfully than the guard."

Hawke nodded, her shoulders popping in a slight shrug. "I told you once that I saw staying in the city as a chance to make a difference. I'm willing and more able than most to shoulder the risk so that people can walk the streets at night in safety. And if I can provide safe housing and food for ten families, allow twenty children to be raised in an environment that encourages helping the poor rather than taking advantage of them ... ." She shrugged. "It just seems there will be fewer people on the streets to kill that way."

He leaned over her a little. "For yourself?"

She rolled over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling of the cave. "I got a home, some power within the city to protect my sister. I was able to give my mother back the life she lost, if only for a short while."

"For yourself?" His arm tightened then relaxed as if admonishing her, telling her to answer the question rather than hedging around it.

"I need only food, armour and weapon repairs, healing potions." She shrugged, the truth of her words simple and clean. The mansion, although pleasant, rang empty and cold. The only armour and weapons she wished to use, she owned. Her father raised her believing that the trappings of wealth and power amounted to just that … a trap, and one that most people never escaped.

"The deep roads, the constant adventuring," she continued, "they were about making sure my family was safe and felt secure. In the end, I couldn't accomplish even that." Turning her head, she looked up into his eyes. How strange that silver stare had seemed at first, and how comforting it had become. It, like the Arishok, remained steadfast and unchangeable. She reached up to touch his jaw, smiling when he didn't pull away from her fingers. "So now I chip away at the ugliness and hope some day to discover beauty."

He said nothing, gaze lifting to stare over her into the fire. After several long moments, he looked back down. "Do your wounds hurt?"

Shaking her head, she smiled. "The only wounds that hurt are the ones I want to feel." She closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath, savouring the pain as it trickled over her skin. "My father always said that nothing valuable was won without pain and blood."

His hand pressed her tighter against him, his fingers spreading to cover her stomach, caressing her absently. "You are closer to the Qun than you believe."

Hawke nodded, knowing that the Arishok spoke true when he said she was close to the Qun. The philosophy called to her, she didn't deny it, but theory wasn't life. "In some ways, perhaps, but there are things I just can't reconcile myself with." Leaning up, she reached for her pile of clothes, rooting through until she found the small pouch she wore on her belt. She opened it and withdrew the pendant she kept tucked in a small, interior pocket. Wrapping the chain around her hand, she lie back down, holding it up so that he could see it. She smiled and nodded when she saw recognition in his eyes.

"Years ago, just after we first met, a sister in the chantry hired me to take a Saarebas from the city." She stared at the pendant, watching the way the firelight glinted off the metal, using it to ease the sadness and disgust that the memory set slithering through her. "She told me that he was the only survivor of a  _karatam_  that had been wiped out by Tal Vashoth. Calling him a burden of charity, she asked me to take him to freedom." A slow shudder travelled the length of her spine, and she glanced up at him to see if he reacted. He did not. "I agreed, horrified at the way he was bound … even his lips sewn shut. I just kept seeing my sister, my beautiful little songbird, being treated that way, and oh … I burned with fury."

He stared down at her, his face giving away nothing.

"We fought our way out through the spiders and usual low life population that haunt the sewers. When we came out the other side, Arvaarad was waiting to take possession of Saarebas." She shrugged a little, remembering her confusion in that moment. How could anyone want to return to a life that shackled them so? "Saarebas wanted to remain bound to the Qun and surrendered. Even though I didn't understand his decision, I was willing to let him decide his own fate."

She chuckled, but it came out wry and sad. "I'm smart enough to know what I don't understand. Apparently not smart enough to know when to shut up, though, and I said something about my sister being a mage and having successfully remained demon free for eighteen years." Another shrug accompanied a slow, incredulous head shake. "We killed them, defending ourselves, and I was perplexed. I'd made no threat toward them. I'd have offered them no threat."

She let the pendant swing a little, admiring it. For the years she'd held onto it, she rarely took it out, afraid that if she wore it, the chain would get broken and she'd lose it. "Saarebas was still alive. I used the rod to unbind him, but he said that he wished to remain bound to the Qun. I would have brought him back to the compound, but he said that since there was no way to know if he'd been corrupted, he needed to die."

She swallowed, having to force it past the lump in her throat. "Before he died, he gave me this pendant and thanked me for my intent. He also told me I was closer to the Qun than I knew, and asked me to remember that day." She tucked the bit of gold into her fist. "I've kept it with me ever since, and it'll never leave my possession until I die."

"Why?" he asked, his voice tight and gruff.

"I'd been sent on a task designed to end in my death," she replied, "a death that would have been used to incite anger against you. Mother Petrice wanted your people to kill someone who had been trying to show the Maker's mercy. But through that dishonourable trap set by a holy woman, I discovered the purest form of honour."

She looked steadily into his eyes. "Too many times over the years, people have proven to me that they hold their integrity cheap. Mages claim to deserve freedom, then at the first test of their character, they turn to blood magic. Men and women of all sorts cheapen themselves in a thousand ways all in the name of staying alive, grubbing together enough money and power to lord over those with less." She lifted the pendant to her lips and kissed it.

"I knew this man a couple of hours, and he showed me true honour. Whether I believed what he believed ... " She let out a long, sad sigh. "... whether I thought his death necessary, he took the only actions he knew to take in order to remain true to his beliefs. He stood tall and said, 'I am of the Qun, and I will die because I need to live by the Qun'."

His hand slid up to her chest, she could feel her heartbeat under his smallest finger as he asked, "You tell me this even knowing what we believe about speaking with an uncollared Saarebas?"

She shook her head, frowning a little as she replied. "I spoke the truth when I said that I don't fear you." Letting out a short huff of breath as if to dismiss the depth of that trust, she shrugged and turned her attention back to the amulet. "He reminded me that I have to live by my beliefs and uphold them even in the face of death. If you believe that I need to die now that you know this, well I only hope that I can face that with the honour and courage he did." She rolled over and tucked the pendant into her pouch, then turned back to face him. "Besides, you've known all along that my sister is an uncollared mage, and I'm still here."

She lifted her hand to stroke his chest, but pulled it back. "Yes, there is much about the Qun that calls to me, but I can't reconcile myself with how some of your people are treated." She chuckled, a raw, bitter sound that contained no mirth. "Any more than I can some elements of my own, I suppose." Lifting the hand that kept trying to stray toward his body, she ran it through her hair. "This may make no sense to you, but that one life touched me more deeply than I would have thought possible. I loved him … love him. Though we spoke only those few words, I'll always love him as a brother." She smiled sadly. "I wanted to share that with you. Perhaps that was selfish."

He slid his arm over her hip to wrap around her, pulling her close. "I understand, better than you know. You do not fit." He leaned in a little, his shoulder and chest pressing her into the pallet even as his arm held her tight against his chest. "I insult the Qun every moment I give in to this."

She pulled back, feeling her selfishness like a horse-kick to the guts as everything lined up in her head, reality forcing its way through the hormones and weariness for the second time. Why had she tempted him the first time? She knew what it meant, knew how deeply it compromised him. And yet, instead of taking the honourable path, she'd allowed the fire in her blood to overrule her head. The fact that he dove in didn't forgive it.

"It's more than that." Shaking her head, she moved to sit up, to … what did she intend to do? Walk back to Kirkwall alone? She could do it, but the thought sent a cold wind rattling through her. Earlier he'd said he would have it happen again … whatever it had been. He'd taken the twins from her hands, but even offering them had been romantic foolishness. "Outside the dragon's cave, I let the moment overcome me. It was selfish offering what I did. I know you can't accept it, and I would not be the cause ... ." Shaking her head, she tried to wriggle out from under his arm, letting out an exasperated sigh when it proved fruitless.

"I am no longer young," he said, his voice gruff but soft as he repeated the line. "My life has been spent in service to my people. The Qun has guided my every thought, every action. Soon, it will call me away from this wretched place, and whether in battle or from age, one day I will die, just as I have lived. By the Qun." He leaned in, tucking his face between her jaw and her neck. "I do not have words to explain why I accepted rather than meditating until the sea washed me clean." She heard him breathe her in, his lips brushing her neck as he spoke. "But I took freely from your hands what you offered." He lifted his head to look into her eyes. "You, who say, 'let them choose' … would you deny me my choice?"

She smiled as he used her own words to silence her. "No. I would deny you nothing, but that more than anything." She shifted a little under his weight, closing her eyes to savour the friction of his skin against hers. "I wouldn't have this cost you."

"All things come with a price." He lifted his head, his expression softening ever so slightly around his eyes. "I will pay the one for this."

Hawke nodded as she ran her fingers through the hair behind the Arishok's ear, heart fluttering rather than taking full beats. She stared up at him for long seconds, trying to orient herself. That morning he'd been her mentor. Yes, she felt a deep affection for him despite his being an unreadable wall, but strict boundaries and borders delineated their relationship. Then the madness after the dragon … . Where did that leave her? Where did it leave them? Were they lovers? Could he love her? Did he desire her love, or was it just about releasing built up tension … giving in to a desire prompted by proximity and lack of options?

The more the doubts and questions swirled around inside her head, the more confused they made her, the tighter her body wound. Like a closed flue, they smothered the fire in her belly. They'd made a mistake and when they returned to the city next day, the comfortable mentoring relationship would be all awkward silences and growing distance. He was the Arishok, she was just a bas rogue with some talent for battle. Her eyes closed. She'd let her loneliness and weakness lead her down a path to destroy one of the few things in her life that she truly cherished.

The Arishok pulled her from the growing storm inside her head and heart when he released a long breath and stretched out along her side. He folded one arm folded under his head, and laid the other along her belly, heavy and deliciously warm. His hand slipped around her ribcage, the weight of her breast pressed against the web between his thumb and first finger. The embrace's casual intimacy eased some of her panic.

"When I was a child, an owl lived in the rafters above my bed," he said, his voice quiet. "One evening I retired to my cot and found that an owlet had fallen from the nest." He let out a puff of breath, and she suspected, had it been anyone else, a smile would have accompanied it. "I knew I should give it to the Tamassrans, but instead, I made it a nest out of rags under my bed and tried to care for it."

Hawke frowned, trying to imagine the tiny Arishok conducting his mission of mercy. Her hand slid over his shoulder to comb into the hair at the base of his skull.

He leaned into her hand. "I kept it hidden, but on the third day I entered the sleeping quarters to find one of the Tamassrans sitting on the side of my cot, holding the owl." His eyes closed, and she felt the memory grow up around them, thick and visceral. "I expected correction, but she just asked why I saved it. When I did not answer, she told me that compassion was not weakness. She said love was not weakness, but that it led to suffering … a particularly difficult suffering to maintain one's strength and wisdom through." He opened his eyes, staring down into hers, that uncomfortable embarrassment flickering there. "She told me I had a good heart, and that would make me a strong, just warrior one day."

Hawke pressed her lips into a thin smile and loosened her grip on his hair to drag the backs of her fingers along his jaw, telling him she agreed without saying anything to deepen his discomfort.

"She said that to be truly wise and strong, I needed to learn to accept suffering without losing myself. She allowed me to keep the owl, then counselled me when it died. Afterwards, she brought the sick or injured animals to me." He eased away from her a little, allowing her to lie flat, her head still cradled on his arm. "Whether they lived and we set them loose, or they died, caring meant learning to let go."

"How old were you?" she asked, her voice barely registering over the fire and other cave noises. The ache in her chest as she looked up at him left her breathless. Void take him, he was making the whole not loving him thing completely impossible. Would she be able to blithely let go when the time came?

He held his hand about three feet off the ground, and she grinned. "You were never that small."

Shaking his head, he let out a soft chuff that rumbled deep in his throat. He pressed her back, his lips caressing their way down her neck. She moved under him, moaning softly as his teeth raked her flesh, beckoning to the flames. She let them roar. When he shifted a knee between her legs, she closed her eyes and lifted her hips, slowly rotating them to brush herself against him. The need to feel his hands touching every inch of her, his body moving over her and inside her, rolled through her like waves in the shallows of an August lake, warm and heady.

"You are not in too much pain?" he asked. When he pulled away, she opened her eyes to meet the stare that burrowed down inside her, searching out everything she would keep hidden. She frowned a little, realizing that she didn't want to keep secrets … not anymore … not from him.

The thoughtful scowl softened into a smile. "For this?" She let the flames lick through her gaze as she shook her head, then leaned up to kiss him, lips tugging at his. "Never."

When he shifted between her legs, she arched into him, eyes closing, head tilting back as she pressed against his stiffening member. Holding it between them, she rolled her hips, rubbing her belly and mound along his length. Her entire body formed a single, raw nerve ending as conflicting sensations tossed her between the sultry heat of his mouth and the chill air on her damp skin when he moved on; the soft, slick contact between their hips; the calloused friction of his hands; and the sharp drag of talons.

He entered her gently, slowly, making love to her with a tenderness as profound as his passion had been earlier. Sated, she curled into him, falling asleep in the circle of his arms, feeling anchored for the first time in many years.


	13. The Inevitable Slide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sitting under the spreading branches of the tree in the center of the garden, he watched the sun rise. Doing so became a habit of his long exile, usually because Hawke wanted them moving before the dew burned off the grass. Once they settled in Denerim, rising early gave them a few moments of peace before Malcolm woke and their day began in earnest.

**The Inevitable Slide**

_Varric awoke with the dawn, managing to slip into the water closet and then out of the house before the morning watch stopped drooling into their pillows. He figured it would be taking his life into his hands to go much further than the garden in the back. So, instead of going out to get some of the Hanged Man's questionable eggs and sausage, he banked the fire in the hearth, and made a kettle of strong coffee._

_Sitting under the spreading branches of the tree in the center of the garden, he watched the sun rise. Doing so became a habit of his long exile, usually because Hawke wanted them moving before the dew burned off the grass. Once they settled in Denerim, rising early gave them a few moments of peace before Malcolm woke and their day began in earnest._

_He looked up at the mosaic of blues glimmering between the leaves. He and Hawke sat under that tree a lot in their last few years in Kirkwall. It afforded them a privacy they couldn't get in the house. Sighing, he kicked his feet up onto a planter, the flowers in it long dead. He and Hawke needed both the conversations and the privacy with Isabela and Anders causing all the crap they did. Sometimes he envied Hawke's fortitude._

_And sometimes he pitied her. Never more than in the year after her mother passed. It seemed as though his friend bore a curse through those years. Perhaps they all did. He certainly suffered his share of betrayal and horror. He closed his eyes, his face rebelling against his circumstance with a smile. It became easy to forget the bad when so much good came along with it._

"Congratulations, Varric." Bethany's voice rang through the house like clear, joyous bells. "You're an uncle to a fine, strapping little boy."

_Footsteps shattered the memory of holding Malcolm for the first time. The Seeker, of course, up before the rest, always setting an example. If she wasn't set on sacrificing his best friend … his sister … to her damned war, he might even admire her._

" _Breakfast." A plate of eggs and onions, salt pork, and bread appeared in front of his face._

" _Getting an early start today?" she asked when he took it._

_Varric scoffed. "Maybe I just needed to make believe I wasn't being held prisoner by religious zealots."_

_The Seeker chewed for a moment then swallowed and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. "That's a little melodramatic, isn't it?"_

_Varric cocked an eyebrow at her, stabbing his chin toward the two guards at attention just outside the back door. Two more stood at the gate. "Is it?"_

_Letting out a sigh worthy of being the most put-upon individual in the history of being put-upon, the Seeker shook her head. "The faster you tell me what I need to know, the sooner you can leave."_

_Varric let his fork drop onto the tin plate, relishing the clatter. "And what is it you need to know? Trust me, if it is anything other than where Hawke is, I'll tell you and take my leave."_

_She lunged toward him, her hand dropping her fork in favour of her sword. "I need to know what happened here in Kirkwall to blow apart our entire world, storyteller." Her plate fell to the stone bench, forgotten in her sudden fury. "I want to know why most of Hightown is a crater and one of the most beloved Grand Clerics of our time is dead, along with hundreds of innocents."_

_Varric's turn to see red. "And you think I don't want those answers myself? You think I sleep easily at night?" He threw up his hands, eggs taking flight. "Sometimes the world just blows itself apart and no one is to blame." He chuffed, a raw, thick cough, then swallowed the phlegm. "Or everyone is. Either way, everything is shit, and blame doesn't matter as much as finding a way out."_

_After looming over him for a few seconds, the Seeker threw herself back down on the bench. "Elthina should have stepped in," she said, her voice barely carrying on the damp breeze. "She was the only one both Meredith and Orsino would have listened to."_

" _Hawke begged her to. The Grand Cleric claimed it wasn't in her power … said that Hawke gave her too much credit." Varric shoved an entire slice of pork into his mouth, eager for the awkward meal to end. At least he knew what to expect from the endless hours in the sitting room. Picnicking with the Seeker gave him the shivers._

" _What happened when Hawke returned to city?" the Seeker asked after a couple of moments, her tone the only apology he could expect judging by her scowl._

" _She came to see me, of course." He bent to retrieve his fork, wiping it off on the hem of his sash before digging into what remained of his eggs. "She had a theory she needed to discuss with me."_

Hawke slept long and deep, her body embracing the reprieve from the heavy exertion of the day before. When she awoke, it was to the warmth of the fire along her front, the crackle and pop of sparks, the smell of roasting meat, and the deep music of qunari meditation. Grinning, she stretched, tightening up different sets of muscles to see how they fared. The ones low in her belly pulsed hard as she tightened them, sending out raw, delicious shivers of pleasure that raced out to her limbs.

She wriggled a little, enjoying the little jolts and sighs her body whispered in response. After a moment, she sat up, searching for the body that had made hers sing before warming it all night. It didn't take long.

The Arishok knelt on the stone a few feet away, his palms resting on bare thighs as he chanted the same lines he'd taught her. After a couple of seconds, he fell silent, but didn't move.

"Among qunari,  _kaatash-hasaam_ are revered," he said without lifting his head. "They do not merely release suffering, they embrace and transform it." A long breath rolled his shoulders back. "With proper training, they become fearless. Many burn too hot, too quickly, their flames extinguished early. If taught temperance, they become warriors and leaders of legend."

Hawke stood, letting the blankets fall away and walked over to kneel by his side, but didn't speak, waiting for him to continue.

"Would you learn this?" he asked, still not looking at her. When she opened her mouth to answer, he shook his head once, silencing her. "I will make you weak and helpless, root out everything you fear and turn it against you. You will obey without question." The depth of the warning in his voice terrified her. "If you take this path, it ends at death. Do not agree lightly."

Hawke sat on her heels, the bones in her kneecaps grinding a little against the stone. "Will you guide me down that path?" Indecision rocked her. He certainly wasn't overselling it, but he wouldn't. He would ensure she knew the worst and let her discover the best on her own. She felt certain the best would far outweigh the other, but still, did she have the strength to face the worst?

The Arishok stood, unfolding neatly. "A test … a small taste of what is to come."

Hawke nodded and lurched to her feet. "As you wish, Arishok."

He strode over to a patch of gravel and scooped up a handful of pebbles. Returning to her side, he tossed them across the stone. "Kneel and meditate. Do not move." He said the last three words slowly, stones dropped into sand.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Hawke regretted every time she picked a pebble out from under her leg or backside. He missed nothing, so she knew when he promised to make her face every single thing she feared, he would.

"As the Arishok commands," she replied, kneeling obediently. Before she even got settled, she wanted to curse and jump up, brushing all the painful little rocks away. Instead, she sat on her heels, rested her palms on her thighs, and closed her eyes.

After fifteen seconds, the pain became unbearable, so she breathed into it, trying to remember how she'd dealt with her stitches the night before. It all had to do with the fire, dead and cold in her belly. Focusing on it, she imagined the pain in her knees and shins flowed up through her veins like molten steel, burning its way to reignite the damp coals.

" _Kaatash-hasaam_ do not release suffering, they embrace and transform it," the Arishok said from behind her.

Embrace it. Hawke nodded and let the pain explode, roaring through her, not careful and controlled, but a pyre that engulfed her.

"Shok ebasit hissra," she said softly, letting the words ignite and disappear in small flashes. "Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun." A soft smile settled onto her lips as she filled her lungs, breathing long and slow, disappearing into the inferno. "Maraas shokra."

Time passed, the pain transforming from moment to moment, but she let it grow and change as it wished without trying to control or direct it.

A hand on her shoulder startled her, and she jumped, yelping as the pebbles bit into her like twenty tiny mabari.

The Arishok offered her his hand, and as she moved to take it, she realized that the fire she'd been feeding was one that led to … . She pulled her hand back, embarrassed. When his brows lowered into a questioning scowl, she shrugged.

"I'm fine, thank you, Arishok. I can get up on my own." She wriggled a little, knowing that she had no hope of making it across the chamber without him seeing the slick gleam all down the insides of her legs.

He nodded and crouched beside her. "You are  _kaatash-hasaam."_ He pressed his hand against her stomach, caressing her for a moment before sliding it down to slip a finger between her thighs. "It is expected." He offered her his hand again, that time pulling her up with him. When she stood, he nodded.

She noticed with some disappointment that he'd dressed but for his pauldrons, a disappointment that lasted only until he stepped behind her. His arms slipped around her waist, pulling her back against his body. He bent down over her until she felt his breath on her shoulder.

"You are unique," he said, his voice hard but quiet. His mouth pressed against her shoulder. One hand remained firmly wrapped around her waist, the other rubbing her belly in lazy circles, pressing in just hard enough to make every muscle below her navel clench tight as he reached the bottom of the circle. "If you do do this … if we do this, hide nothing from me." His hand slipped down to press against her, the pad of his middle finger teasing a little before settling to circle over her sensitive nub. Now and again, he gave it a flick, holding her tight as her body jumped, her mind blissing out.

"You are unique," he whispered, his low, rolling voice lifting her higher into his arms. "I once told you that we are free to embrace and succeed or reject and die." He kissed her neck, his teeth raking her skin, tugging at it. "Embrace what you are. Take pride in it. Succeed and become what you have always been meant to be."

She bucked softly against his hand and leaned back, her head resting against his neck. Clinging to his arms, she closed her eyes and lifted her pelvis, pressing into the contact. Did she want to face her demons? More than a few followed her around, the Deep Roads taught her that. She moaned and arched into him, head turning to press kisses against anywhere she could reach. Again, the question rose in her mind.

"Will you guide me down that path?" she asked between soft gasps. Bliss … his rough, calloused fingers gliding over her slick flesh … . She moaned, the rest of the thought vanishing into a gentle undulation … the wave starting at her knees and rolling through her.

He nuzzled her shoulder and the curve of her neck. "For as long as I am able."

_As Varric reached a natural pause in the tale, the Seeker stood and nodded toward the door, encouraging him to follow. Instead of leading him back to the fire in the sitting room, she added their plates to the washbin and led him through to the front door. Glad to avoid a day the gloomy house, he followed, pausing on to check that he carried bolts for Bianca. Even in the company of a Seeker, one could never be too careful._

_He picked the tale up outside, once his eyes adjusted to the brilliant sun reflecting off the buildings and paving tiles._

" _One day I want to meet the person who decided to make all cities from the most pale, reflective stone available," the Seeker said, shading her eyes against the glare, "and kick them somewhere it will hurt for a fortnight."_

_Varric chuckled, but let the complaint pass unremarked on. The Seeker knew his city possessed more than its share of darkness; she didn't need him to remind her. Andraste's tits, as a lifelong resident, he knew it well enough to welcome the moments of sunblindness and occasional headache._

_The Seeker set a course for Lowtown, shifting restlessly in her armour and wiping her brow. The day was warm enough that certainly a heavy set of armour wouldn't prove welcome. So far up the mountain, the breeze rarely reached a sufficient velocity to stir his chest hair, unless a storm brewed._

" _Hawke and the Arishok returned to the city before noon, and as far as I know, he didn't make an appointment for their next adventure." He chuckled, low and deep, the entire affair one that never ceased testing the limits of his beliefs. Over the years, Hawke had shared more with him than he told Seeker Pentaghast. Never the sex bits, but her training as haatash-kasaam involved a great deal more than sex. He never knew whether to be in awe or horrified by her descriptions of what the Arishok put her through._

" _You said she had a theory?"_

_Varric sighed. She always needed to jump ahead. "I'm coming to that now. Patience, Seeker. A good story can't be rushed."_

Hawke pushed through the door of the mansion and started stripping off her blood-caked armour, dropping it at the foot of her writing desk when she stopped to look through her messages.

"My lady!" Bodahn gasped. "Not again!" The dwarf hurried toward her, picking up her armour as he went, his face a stunned mask of horror. "What are those monsters doing to you?"

"The qunari are not monsters, Bodahn; they're just people." She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. "The blood's not mine this time, don't worry."

"And the spot on your side, messere?" he asked, his voice soft but concerned. He held up her jerkin and poked two fingers through the new slit in the leather. "This thing is going to be more patches than original if you keep this up."

She glanced down. "Oh, yeah … that one is mine, but it's fine, Bodahn." Grabbing her messages, she ran upstairs. "I've got to change and head down to the Hanged Man. Isabela and Varric want to see me."

"Do you wish me to draw you a bath, m'lady?" Orana asked, appearing at the mouth of the hall to the kitchen.

Hawke grinned and stopped at the top of the stairs, her hand on the railing. The combination of the Arishok's promise and his hand had brought her to a climax that left her barely able to stand. He'd held her tight against him until her legs stopped shaking like a newborn foal's, then led her over to the fire. While she meditated, he'd banked the fire and put a large pot of water over it to heat. He washed her from head to toe, rubbed her dry, and then tended all her wounds from the day before. After she dressed, they sat side by side and ate, then returned to the city.

Her smile widened and she shook her head. "No thank you, Orana, I'm just going to change my clothes and head out." She strode for her bedroom, tossing a "Thank you, though" over her shoulder.

" _Am I supposed to believe all this?" The Seeker stopped and looked down the stairs toward Lowtown, a delicate curl of distaste twisting her mouth._

_The view forced him to agree with her assessment; the city looked like complete shit. Nobody seemed to care about fixing up damage three years old. Maybe after being trashed for the second time, Kirkwall had just given up._

_Varric shrugged and then started down the stairs as he answered her question. "I warned you that Hawke didn't fill me in on all the intimate details. I know that she killed the dragon, then had their heated … " He paused, searching for a word with precisely the right flavour. "... commingling, fought the Tal Vashoth, and returned to the city." He paused, waiting for the Seeker to catch up so that he didn't have to shout back over his shoulder._

" _I know that he offered to teach her, and she accepted after a fashion." He shrugged again. "The rest I provide only for your consideration."_

_His eyes closed as the familiar odours, both pleasant and revolting, wafted over him. Had the city always smelled so much like vomit and feces? He remembered more meat and corn roasting and less noxious gas. Glancing over at the Seeker, he grinned at the revulsion on her face. He'd feel sorry for her, but it had been her idea to walk down and spend some time in more hospitable surroundings. No doubt, she'd use just about any word other than hospitable right then._

_Impossible as it was to believe, it had been three years since he set foot in the Hanged Man. He'd spent so much time wishing he was back in Lowtown, mentally building his rooms into a place of perfect respite from the many days spent trudging along with soaked feet and small clothes. Under the harsh light of reality, nothing about the city looked or felt as comforting and homey as he remembered. Maybe he tended to give his memories the same treatment as he did his stories, building them into something reality couldn't possibly live up to._

_And, right then, standing at the brink of returning to his old stomping grounds … he missed his family. Would he even recognize Malcolm when he caught up with them? Would the kid remember him?_

" _So, where were we?" the Seeker asked, cutting through the ache that settled in his chest._

" _At the Hanged Man. Hawke changed and ran down to answer the messages Isabela and I left while she was away." He let out a long breath and slumped into his chair. "She was happier than I had seen her in a very long time." The ache in his chest deepened and spread out into his limbs, weighing them down. "I should have known it was too good to last."_

_Varric took a long breath, the memories of that time as dark and ugly as anything he'd ever seen. "It all started far too close to home for my liking," he said. "Isabela had been stranded in Kirkwall by the same storm as the qunari. At least, that was the story. She'd been sent to find a relic for a previous employer by the name of Castillon." He held up his hands in a weighing gesture. "And as fate had it, Hawke learned that the qunari were stranded in Kirkwall until the Arishok recovered a relic that had been stolen from them." He dropped his hands back to his sides and shrugged. "It didn't take a genius to put the pieces together."_

_Stepping down off the end of the bridge into the small market, the Seeker glanced over at him. "Isabela didn't know where the relic was?"_

_Varric reached back, touching Bianca just to reassure himself that the weight he felt was her. The city growled and snapped, half-wild—almost feral—on that side of the bridge. "That's the only reason Hawke just sat back and watched the good ex-captain. She liked Isabela well enough, but not more than everyone in the city. Hawke hoped that Isabela would uncover a lead that would allow her to track down the relic first. Once she retrieved the relic and sent the qunari on their way, she'd find a way to help Isabela deal with her personal issues."_

" _Varric!" a sweetly accented voice called from one of the stalls. "It's been so long. We've missed your handsome face around Kirkwall." The woman stepped around the end of her kiosk, leaning on one hip while she raked a hand through long, gold hair. "Are you coming back to us?"_

" _Not today," the Seeker called, stepping between them. "Thank you, and good day."_

_Varric shrugged at … what was her name? He had to be getting old. Sophia? Becky? Tilla? Anyway … he shrugged and walked backward a few steps. "Sorry, what can I say? She's the jealous type."_

_A rough hand grabbed him by the collar and dragged him toward the market. "Control yourself."_

_He chuckled. "Around you, Seeker, it's not easy." After a moment of facing down her glare, he sighed and shrugged. "Fine. That day, Hawke came into the Hanged Man, and headed straight for Isabela's usual haunt at the bar."_

"Imagine finding former Captain Isabela at the bar in the Hanged Man." Hawke stopped a couple of strides behind the pirate and crossed her arms. "I might just faint dead away from surprise."

"You know, you really aren't as funny as you think you are." Isabela turned to face Hawke, a slow smile spreading across her face as a sultry stare swept over Hawke's face. The captain's eyes narrowed, a sharp, teasing sparkle in their depths. "Oh my."

Hawke cocked a hip, trying not to squirm as that stare poked her with sharp sticks, trying to unsettle her. It succeeded. Instead of responding to the prodding, Hawke said, "You sent a message that you needed to talk to me?" If only it was so easy to divert Isabela's attention once the pirate caught scent of a secret.

The captain stepped up and slipped an arm through Hawke's, guiding her toward the nearest empty table. "All in good time. First you have to tell me … how was he? I imagine all that broodiness and smoldering anger shows itself in bed." A lecherous, exaggerated wink jabbed Hawke hard enough that she pulled free of Isabela's arm.

When the pirate pushed her down onto a bench, Hawke just stared at her, trying not to show her discomfort. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Isabela. Now, why am I here?"

Isabela thumped down onto the bench on the other side of the table. "You've got to spill. You can't just come in here sporting those marks all over your neck and that freshly deflowered glow and not share the details."

"Yes, I can and I will. Between Varric turning my every move into a tavern tale and an abundance of nosy friends, I have precious little that is just mine. Respect that I want to save some of my life from being gobbled up by the public." Hawke let out a long sigh. If they thought her guarded before the Arishok, they'd find her walls covered in sharp, rusty spikes and patrolled by a legion of feral mabari now. "However, to spare him a lewd interrogation, I will share that it wasn't Fenris, but that's it. Just let it go."

She pulled her handkerchief from her belt pouch and wrapped it around her neck, cursing herself for not bothering to check in a mirror before setting out. "Now, please tell me why you wanted to see me." Leaning her forearms on the table, she fixed the captain with an inviting, but firm stare, one eyebrow lifting toward her hairline.

Isabela let out a dramatic sigh and slumped a little, pouting. "Fine. I don't know what happened a couple of months ago, but you used to be fun." She stared at Hawke, meeting the stern, slightly impatient stare for nearly a minute before she shrugged. "All right. All right."

Cutting the air with a quick wave, the captain beckoned for another drink, then remained silent while she waited. Norah thumped a bottle and a ceramic cup down on the table, turning a questioning gaze to Hawke, that she greeted with a shake of the head and a smile of thanks. Even the thought of the Hanged Man's ale made her want to throw up.

On the other side of the table, Isabela poured a splash of whiskey into the cup then wrapped her hands around it, paying far too much attention to the placement of her fingers on the ceramic. Hawke squashed her impatience, knowing it would only clam Isabela up further.

"Remember how I told you that I might need your help one day to recover the relic?" the captain said at last. "A contact says that it's surfaced. He's following its trail now."

Hawke nodded, her eyes narrowing as she tried to decide what she saw in her friend's expression. It looked like covering for a lie … or at least a partial truth. "You know I'll do whatever I can." She laced her fingers together on the table, staring at them for a moment before she continued. "What can you tell me about the relic? I assumed it sank with your ship, so did someone dive down to get it? Did it wash up on shore? What happened to it?"

A long silence stretched out as Isabela looked everywhere but at Hawke. "At first, I thought it went down with my ship. I thought all hands had been lost in the storm, but then Lucky came to see me the other day." She cocked an eyebrow over the rim of her cup as she took a long swallow. When the cup hit the table, she splashed in another couple fingers worth of whiskey before she continued, "You remember Lucky?"

Hawke snorted a little in the back of her throat. "How could I forget?" She leaned forward, letting her head sink into her shoulders a little, looking up at Isabela from under lowered brows. "What did he have to say? Anything worth coin rather than a counter to the forehead?"

"He said that a fellow showed up in Ostwick, bragging about being the only survivor of a ship that sank during a … " The pirate cleared her throat. "... storm off Kirkwall." She tossed back the whiskey, giving her head a hard shake as she choked on the fumes. "He used a fake name, but from the description, he sounds like my former first mate. Lucky heard rumors about a relic being up for sale. It's attracted notice from Tevinter, although the idiot didn't have any more than that for me." She leaned back, dropping her hands into her lap.

Hawke watched her, debating the effect of asking directly whether or not she'd stolen the relic from the qunari. Deciding that it would probably just send Isabela running, she nodded and let out a hearty sigh. "Okay, if your sources turn anything up that we can actually do something about, let me know."

Isabela nodded, a sickly sort of smile crossing her face before she poured herself another whiskey. "I will, and thank you, Hawke."

Hawke left Isabela to her drinking and climbed up to Varric's room. The dwarf sat at his table, writing. Grinning, she leaned against the door jam and crossed her arms. "It's times like this I feel as though I should be asking you to sign an entire sheaf of papers. I can make a killing when you are forced to flee your fame into the deep roads."

Varric just shook his head and kept writing. "How big do you want your … daggers … " His grin could only be considered licentious. "... to be in this version of the fight against the dragon at the Bone Pit?"

She pushed off the wall and strode over to sit at the table. "Four times smaller than you'd make them on your own. There are some things that just don't need exaggeration." She slouched into her chair. "In the one about my 'single-handed combat' with the Ogre, my … daggers … were so large there is no way I could have actually managed half those acrobatics without putting out both my eyes and spraining my back."

He shrugged. "Maybe I just remember things differently than you."

She laughed, genuine but brittle. "You weren't there."

"Semantics." When he finished the line, he set down his quill and leaned back. The paper held his attention for several seconds before he looked up. "Out hunting with the Arishok yesterday?"

She nodded. "Yeah, a young dragon that had killed one of his scouts, then a mine full of Tal Vashoth." Leaning back, she stretched her legs out in front of her. "Headed over as soon as I got back this morning. What's going on?"

Varric let out a long breath that growled a little deep in his throat and pushed up out of his chair. "Other than not seeing my best friend in almost a week and then finding out she's doing sleepovers with the Arishok?"

Hawke just watched him, knowing that nothing she could say would make it okay. She'd gotten caught up in her lessons, and it was only going to get worse. She just had to be a better friend. In the meantime, all she could say was, "I'm sorry. I know I haven't be a very good friend lately."

"You're different, Hawke, and it worries me. Are you taking this Qun thing to heart? Are you converting?" He paced around the table and back. "Is that why we don't see you?"

"No, I'm not converting … I'm learning." As the words appeared in her head, panic balled in her throat, making her voice brittle and strained. "Between the chantry and the viscount and the Arishok … they've put me in the middle and either said 'keep the peace for us' or 'we'll tear the peace down around you no matter what you do'."

She leaned forward, rod stiff, and shrugged, just a tiny pop of shoulders and helpless flip of hands. "The whole city depends on me trying to either keep things quiet or to find this artifact that the Arishok needs and send them on their way." Flopping back in her chair, she just stared into his amber eyes, glad to see the annoyance in them softening to concern. "If I don't learn … if I don't make the qunari into allies who will trust me to deal with the zealots … how do I keep this city from burning, Varric?"

He held up his hands and nodded. "Okay, I get it." His eyebrows raised as he tilted his head toward her a little. "I don't like it, but I get it." Leaning against the table, he let his head hang. "Look, I sent the message because I got word about Bartrand."

Hawke bolted forward in her chair. "Yeah? Where is the bastard?" She pulled her head back, her brows migrating toward her nose as old rage pulled her face into a tight frown. "He wasn't stupid enough to come back to Kirkwall, was he?" She ducked down to look Varric's eyes. "He didn't?"

"He called in loans and my contacts say he bought himself a house in Hightown." He shoved himself up off the table and stabbed the air with one hand, his expression as mystified as Hawke felt. "I guess he couldn't find a market for that red lyrium idol in Rivain." A low, almost growl tumbled from his throat: aged, raw, and barbed with poison spikes. "Strange, Rivain is just the sort of place where betrayal sells at a premium."

Hawke stood, walking around the table to lay her hand on his shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze. "You said your contacts have him living in the city? We'll go pay him a visit, see if we can't get some answers. Yes?" She leaned down, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. "And I really am sorry for being such a crappy friend lately." When she kissed his temple, she grinned at the sputtering protests that greeted it.

"I know I'm irresistible, Hawke, but resist." He pushed at her, holding her as far away as he could. "I can't imagine whoever turned your neck into a map of Thedas will be impressed with you fawning all over me."

She jerked back, her hands flying to cover what little bare skin still showed. "Damn it, they're still showing?" She spun, looking for a mirror. "Is there a mirror? I can't walk around with people gawking at my … ." When he began to laugh, she bumped him with her hip. "Stop it. You're a terrible, heartless friend. I'm not sorry any longer."

"But I note you haven't denied that someone did that. Very interesting." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "There's a mirror in the back room next to the bed."

Hawke headed back, eager to cover the evidence. If Anders or Fenris … or … Merrill … . She shook her head, the consequences of having to explain everything to Merrill was too much. The evidence needed to be hidden. She bent down in front of the slightly foggy glass and untied the kerchief, rolling it to turn it into a wide collar. "Hey, Varric, can I ask you something that will never see the public record?" She turned until she could see him in the mirror.

He crossed the threshold and leaned against the pillar. After holding his silence for a moment, he said, "Not my favorite sort of promise to make, but all right. Ask away."

Hawke finished tying her kerchief in place, then turned to face him. "Has it occurred to you that maybe the relic Isabela is trying to get her hands on and the one the Arishok had stolen from him are the same relic?" She watched his eyes, searching for all the bits he didn't want to say. He always held back, even when he didn't mean to. It was just part and parcel of growing up around the Dwarven Merchant Guild.

His shoulders bristled for a moment before they settled. "I'm not a big believer in coincidence, Hawke. They both get washed ashore by the same storm, both looking for relics." A shrug settled them even further. "Rivaini believes the relic will save her life; do you think she'll turn it over to the qunari?"

Hawke lifted her knee up onto the side of the bed and sat facing him. "I won't let anything happen to Isabela. She has to know that by now." The pirate had to trust her after the years and the times she'd stuck her neck out for her, had her back … forgiven her for attempted murder. Of course, something always held Hawke back from getting as close with Isabela as the rest of her companions. Part of that stemmed from having very little … well, nothing really … in common. The pirate captain was a laugh … someone to sit around and make ribald jokes with. Even then her joy in those conversations came out of watching Bethany turn a brilliant shade of crimson, and Merrill flail, trying to figure out what they were talking about.

"Does she know that you have her back?" Varric pushed off the beam and walked over to sit beside her. "She's pretty worried about all the time you're spending with the qunari." He ducked his head a little, a scowl pinching the skin between his brows. "If she stole that relic from the qunari … can you blame her?"

Shaking her head, Hawke let out a long, resigned breath, the sinking feeling in her gut getting so intense that she wondered if it had somehow fallen from her body and landed in the Void. "I can't let Isabela bring the qunari down on this city." She narrowed her eyes, intensifying the connection between she and her best friend … her brother. "You get that, right? I'll do whatever I can to save Isabela, but I have to find that damned relic and get the qunari out of the city."

Varric clapped a hand down on her forearm. "I have an idea where to start, but give me a few days to dig around."

She grinned and squeezed his fingers. "Always. Meanwhile … how about we go welcome Bartrand into his new home."

The dwarf matched her wicked smile. "Excellent idea. Bianca and I have just the housewarming gift."


End file.
